


This Is It

by byrd_the_amazin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I'm very sorry, Les Amis - Freeform, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Violence, also angst, also nerds who don't know what to do with their feelings, and montparnasse is an asshole, au in which the government is incapable of dealing with issues, cosette is a literal princess fight me on this, dystopian au, exr is actually not the main ship here imagine that, in which byrd is terrible at tags, lots of favs die, oh wait that's real life my bad, patron Minette - Freeform, set in the future and lots of sadness and violence, so much, what a concept
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 101,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byrd_the_amazin/pseuds/byrd_the_amazin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the future.  Les Amis, the underground revolutionary group, plots to overthrow the oppressive government (but really, what else is new).  See also: the Dystopian AU That Is Much Overused And No One Asked For But I Supplied Anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! byrd here. This is my first fic on here, so please be kind...however, I do appreciate constructive criticism (so like, don't tell me I suck, or, if you do, tell me how I can fix it so that I don't anymore...after all, giving your authors comments is the greatest thing you can do). The beginning's kinda slow, but bear with me. It gets more exciting, I swear. 
> 
> I have nothing witty or funny to say. cripes I'm boring. 
> 
> here goes nothing. *throws glitter and moonwalks away in shame*

Prologue

A small, lithe figure sprinted around a corner and used his momentum to leap a fence. Landing with a delicateness that shouldn’t have been physically possible, he reconnected his feet to the ground and continued his run. In the darkness of midnight, only a few streetlamps glowed, leaving large patches of street darkened. Anyone could be hiding in those shadows. And given the ratio of people in this city –in this country- that wanted this boy dead versus those who didn’t, it was more likely to be an enemy.

As he ran, he reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the very reason he was currently running for his life; a tiny metal USB drive, seemingly insignificant to cost him his life, holding priceless government secrets. But the government had figured out that he had it much sooner than he had anticipated, and now he was just praying to anyone up in the sky who was listening that he made it back to his base in one piece.

Heavy footfalls behind him made him quicken his pace; he was fast and able to long distances, but even he had a stage where he began to tire. These government officials (or gov-bots) after him, these inhuman creatures, did not. They could run for days, hardy and durable, but incredibly narrow-minded. Give them a task and they won't rest until they’ve completed it. Or died trying.

He personally hoped that in his case, they would die trying, or at least let him get back to base and regroup with his team, gather a weapon or two, and then come after him. Then he’d be ready. During this op, he hadn’t been. Because even with all the data, all the statistics and charts and inquiries and hypotheses made by his brilliant team, they still got things wrong.

Like this time. Hence why he was now sprinting back in the direction he hoped base was, if he remembered correctly. They had had to relocate a few weeks ago due to a technological failure, and he still hadn’t gotten used to the route he now had to take to get back.

The gov-bots’ footsteps were getting closer, and he poured on the speed, but his body protested. His limbs ached from at least half an hour of running and his breath was coming out in sharp gasps. Much too loud sharp gasps. They knew where he was for sure. Now it was just a matter of getting him, catching him, imprisoning, torturing, and eventually executing him for treason to the government. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to get to base.

His mind was set on that one goal- have to get to base have to get to base- so he wasn’t focused when his feet hit the tree stump, and he was only vaguely aware of hitting the ground. Next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his stomach, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him when he hit the ground, knees and wrists all burning like nothing he’d ever felt before.

He tried to get back up, but when he put pressure on his right foot, his vision went gray around the edges and his knee buckled. Desperately, he tried again to rise. He could hear his pursuers getting closer, they would be on him any minute, so he had to move, he had to get back to base, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He felt so helpless, so vulnerable and weak, lying on the ground, waiting for the gov-bots to catch up to him.

Just because he was expecting it, however, didn’t make it any easier to handle the pain of having the butt of a gun shoved into the back of his head. He cried out at the spots that swam before his eyes and dropped his head to rest on the dusty ground. A boot was planted on his back, catching on his long hair and making him wince, but there was no need. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not now.

The gov-bot with his boot on the boy’s back snickered and made some comment about how they think they’re so tough until they get caught, don’t they, and it was all the boy could do not to snap something right back. As the boot pressed down upon his back, making it harder and harder to breathe, the boy frantically felt in his pocket for the flash drive. His entire mission’s success lay in the safety of that little piece of metal, so when he couldn’t feel it in his pocket, his mind went blank with panic. Had it fallen out when he’d fallen? He didn’t think so. His pockets were fairly deep, and he hadn’t fallen that hard. Maybe he was checking the wrong pocket. Maybe he hadn’t checked this pocket thoroughly enough. His brain swam with all these thoughts at once, and he scrambled for the flash drive.

He didn’t have long. Sooner or later the gov-bot holding him down would realize that he was looking for something, and he would put a stop to it and then… And then take the flash drive, the boy realized.

They would take it and all his work would be for nothing.

But if he had dropped it back there, and his team came to investigate this scene later, once he had been carried off, and they found the flash drive… Then the mission would still be a success. At the cost of his own life, but he knew what he had been signing up for when he joined the team of revolutionaries. The whole team had. The cause was above everything else- friendships, family, likes, dislikes, and life. Maybe the flash drive was safe, hidden among the foliage lining the forest road, and when his team came to look for him, they would find it instead- the very reason for his capture.

He was now wheezing and choking for air, and just when he thought that this was how he would die- asphyxiation from a stupid gov-bot’s boot, the pressure released, and he was grabbed by the shoulder and hauled roughly to his feet, all his joints protesting, his ankle worst of all. His vision went burry and he started to crumple, but two gov-bots caught him and supported his weight while the third got right up to his face and sneered a disgusting sneer that the boy could only just make out from the light of the streetlamp three hundred yards away.

“Little brat,” he hissed, and spat at the boy’s face. The boy might have cared under different circumstances, but to even lift his head was a victory in itself now, and so he did; bright blue eyes meeting emotionless, robotic black ones.

“You thought you could just steal plans from the government without anyone noticing? Thought you could just waltz in, take the USB, and dance back out? I have news for you, you disgusting scum of the earth.” The gov-bot leaned in even closer.

“You failed, kid. And now you’re going to go through hell for it.”

The boy didn’t let fear show on his face- wouldn’t let fear show on his face- but his mind raced, then settled abruptly with something akin to being resigned. I lost. This is it. Now they cart me off to federal prison, or some torture chamber, or somewhere else.

From his position, he couldn’t see far, but he cast his eyes around desperately, hoping against hope that someone would come save him. Maybe a passerby Samaritan, or a member of his team. For surely, if this were an action movie like the ones he used to love so much before his life became one, his team would be ready in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike at the enemy, rescuing the boy and saving the day, maybe picking up the lost USB drive in the process.

He knew that it was a naïve, childish wish. His teammates were all back at base, probably still recovering from the shock of having gov-bots appear much quicker than anticipated. The boy had had a comms unit in his ear once upon a time, connecting him to base and his partners, but when he had entered the government base, it had gone silent, most likely caused by the signal-blocking shields the government had surrounding their bases. He wished he had backup, but he was hopelessly alone and he knew it. Now all he had to worry about was dying with dignity, being a martyr for the cause his team and he fought for instead of the small, wispy child everyone assumed him to be.

With a sharp pain in his ear, he realized that one of the gov-bots had just ripped out his comms unit. Doesn’t work anyway, buddy, he wanted to say, but his mouth felt as dry as sand.

It all ends now, he told himself, and winced as he waited for the first blow to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it is revealed who the person from the prologue is, his team makes an entrance, enj is an ass without meaning to be, and bahorel totally rocks his diamond earring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so hey... me again. like forty people read the prologue (which. is. amazing.) and only five kudosed (WHAT AM I DOING WRONG PEOPLE TELL ME?!) but so anyways the one comment i got was super sweet and uplifting (much thanks to sweet Lyliibee xxx) ANYWAYS i decided that one comment and five kudos were enough and so here is your first chapter, children! hope you enjoy! 
> 
> much appreciation and kisses to kevin, without whom i wouldn't have had the nerve to do this in the first place
> 
> trigger warning for blood
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter One_

“Have you found his signal yet?” the tall blond asked.

His friend and teammate, a man with black-rimmed glasses and a stern expression on his face, huffed in annoyance. “I’m doing all I can, but the government’s main shield is blocking the transmission. My answer hasn’t changed from ten seconds ago, either.”

The blond didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. “But you’re doing all you can?”

“For God’s sake, _yes,_ Enjolras. We’ll find him, don’t worry.”

Enjolras turned to the rest of his team, all either watching the man at the computer or on devices of their own, presumably looking for their missing comrade’s signal, or any trace of him anywhere.

It was several minutes more of silence before a ginger manning a laptop spoke up. “I’ve got something.”

“Is it him?” A man with dark curly hair walked over, the worry clear in his eyes.

The ginger nodded. “It’s a recording of all the things his comms unit picked up after it was disconnected from us, meaning he must be back in range.”

“Out of the government base,” the curly-haired man sighed with relief. “Safe.”

“We hope,” the ginger corrected. “It could mean anything. You want to hear the recording?”

“Feuilly, my dear, dear friend, is that even a question?”

“Drama queen,” Feuilly muttered, and turned his laptop’s volume up as he pressed play.

A high pitched whining sound filled the room and made everyone wince. Feuilly hit the volume button and his team seemed to relax as the noise lessened considerably.

“The frequency of the transmission probably rocketed up when he crossed the anti-satellite shield,” the man with the glasses speculated.

The curly-haired one groaned. “ _English,_ ‘Ferre. English would be nice.”

This earned him a glare from Glasses. “Fine. Fine. He crosses the transmission/no transmission border and the strain on the comms unit made it cut off, however, Fueilly here has managed to get us a recording of all that the comms unit picked up from that time on. Was that good enough for you, Courfeyrac?”

“That was very good English, Combeferre. I’m proud of you. Your non-nerd-speak is improving.” Courfeyrac patted Combeferre’s shoulder and turned his attention back to Feuilly. “Can you fix the frequency levels so that we can actually hear it?”

The ginger nodded and tapped at something, then pressed play again. With one final _screeeeeeee_ , the noise cut off and heavy breathing was heard on the laptop.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac whispered, and no one else dared speak, dared ruin this moment for him. When he had heard the comms unit cut off so many hours ago, Courfeyrac had gone deathly pale in the face and was inconsolable for hours, until he’d learned that the government would probably make a rebel’s execution public and mandatory viewing, and so Jehan was still alive. When he’d heard _that,_ he had ordered everyone in Les Amis, their underground revolutionary group, to get on the case of finding (and potentially rescuing) their missing team member.

The breathing got heavier, and the sound of someone running was clear- someone light on their feet and very fast. It was Jehan, no doubt, and then he spoke. “ _Alright, guys, I’m in_.” Silence for a moment, save the running, and then, “ _Guys?”_

Courfeyrac choked back a sob. “I’m here, Jehan. I’m here, oh my God…”

“He can't hear you, Courf,” Feuilly said gently, and Courfeyrac buried his face in his hands. “It’s just a recording from earlier.”

“I know,” came his muffled reply.

On the laptop, Jehan seemed to have realized his comm was cut off. “ _Damn,” he muttered. “Is anyone there? I’m going in, for what it’s worth. The coast is clear. I’ll get the data and then hightail it out of here. Be back to base before you know it. Oh, and Fey? Just wanted to say… a lot of things. But I’ll keep it simple- love you, see you soon, kisses.”_

“I love you too, J,” Courfeyrac whispered, and the others pretended not to hear.

There was a rustling sound over the recording, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then the telltale _beep_ of an alarm system powering down. After a few more rustles and some _thuds_ that were impossible to decipher, Jehan’s whisper came back on.

“ _The alarms are disabled, Ferre, thanks, and the guards are all otherwise detained, thank you Bahorel? Or maybe Feuilly? I don’t know, but thanks anyways. I don’t even know if you all can hear me. Never mind. The point is, I’ve got the USB drive and I’m headed back, just as soon as_ -”

“ _Hey kid!_ ” The voice was harsh and male and definitely not friendly. “ _What are you doing?”_

“ _Shit,”_ Jehan muttered, and there was the sound of running, then, “ _The guards aren’t supposed to be back yet. Why are the guards back, guys? Ferre?”_

Courfeyrac put a hand over his mouth and breathed shakily as the sounds of pursuit got louder and closer and faster. After about half an hour of various footfalls and heavy breathing, there came the loudest _thud_ of all, and Jehan’s cry of pain.

Then came the gov-bot’s voice, jeering and cruel. “ _You kids think you’re so tough, don’t you? Right up until you get caught.”_

Jehan’s breath grew more and more labored, as though he were being strangled. Then the gov-bot spoke, much closer now. “ _Little brat. You thought you could just steal plans from the government without anyone noticing? Thought you could just waltz in, take the USB, and dance back out? I have news for you, you disgusting scum of the earth. You failed, kid. And now you’re going to go through hell for it.”_

There was silence, then a scuffling noise, and then Jehan whimpered once more before the transmission was cut for good and the recording ended.

Dead silence among Les Amis. No one would meet anyone else’s eye, and Feuilly and Courfeyrac both were staring at the screen in shock at what they had just heard, Feuilly’s hand still hovering over the button that had started the whole fateful recording.

Finally, Bahorel, a huge man with bruises and scars everywhere from his frequent brawls and a low, growling voice, spoke up. “He’s not dead yet, Courfeyrac.”

“And what exactly do you propose we do now?” Enjolras snapped, running a hand through his blond curls. “I expect they’re planning on executing him soon, and if we go to rescue him and fail, then they’ll have more than one of us.” He turned to Combeferre. “What now?”

Combeferre took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in agitation. “I’m not the leader, Enjolras. What do _you_ propose we do?”

“I’m not the leader, this is a democracy,” Enjolras muttered, but it was quite pointless, as they could all see the gears in his head turning even as he said the words.

“We can’t go after him. Too much of a security risk,” he murmured, ignoring Courfeyrac’s sob that was stifled into his hands. “They could kill him at any time, so we need to be alert. And he may still have the USB drive, if the government hasn’t confiscated it already. So if we can somehow get the drive…”

“Is the drive all that bloody matters to you?” Courfeyrac’s voice was lined with disgust. “He’s dying, possibly already dead, maybe awaiting execution, and all you can think about is the bloody drive? He’s doing this for you. For us.”

“For our cause,” Enjolras agreed. “Something we all agreed to risk our lives for, way back in the beginning, remember?”

Courfeyrac glared into empty space, not wanting to confirm the fact.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Enjolras, saying you’ll risk your life and then watching someone you love actually doing it…Those are two very different things.”

“I realize that. But we all knew this was a dangerous mission. It always is. There’s always a chance that someone might not make it.”

“Like Eponine?” someone asked from the other end of the couch. Heads swiveled; people looked for the one that dared to say _her_ name, a name that hadn’t been spoken since she had been captured on a mission and executed, deep within the basement of a top-security government base.

It was Marius. Of course it was. The wide-eyed, tousle-haired young man who had a permanently startled expression had no filter when it came to his words. But it was impossible to stay mad at him, like trying to be angry at a puppy.

“Yes, Marius,” said Combeferre, almost cautiously. “Like Eponine. She knew what she was getting into. We all did. And we all still do. Now we need to work out a new course of action.”

“We need that USB drive,” Enjolras said, and Courfeyrac let out an exasperated huff. “But first, we need to go investigate. See what happened, and tally the chances of us getting our friend back.”

Courfeyrac turned to him with a grin so wide it seemed to split his face. “I think I love you right now,” he announced, and Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re making no guarantees,” he warned, and then turned to address the whole room, which, up to this point, had been shocked into silence by the sudden turn of events. “We don’t know if we’ll be able to rescue him, but we sure as hell are going to try.”

An appreciative cheer went up at that, and the mood was lifted.

“We need volunteers now,” Enjolras said. “A team of two or three people to go check around the base, see how far Jehan made it before they caught him. He may have left a clue somewhere, knowingly or not. We need to go see. Stealth and speed will be key. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll do it,” said Bahorel and Feuilly at the same time, and then they proceeded to glare at each other across the room. Being boxing partners didn’t automatically make them best friends, but no one took this seriously, seeing as they could do better than the rest of the team combined when they worked together.

“Excellent. Anyone else?”

No one spoke for second, and then Courfeyrac raised his hand. “I’ll go.”

Enjolras hesitated, the doubt clear in his eyes. “Are you sure? We can have someone else-”

“I don’t want someone else to do it,” Courfeyrac snapped, and it was so unlike his usual cheerful self that Enjolras took a step back.

“Sorry. I just…this is important to me. I want to help save him. I _need_ to help do this instead of sitting back here on my ass just _waiting_ as they do who-knows-what to J-Jehan.”

He stuttered slightly on Jehan’s name, but Enjolras was kind enough not to point it out. Instead, he turned to Feuilly. “How soon can you guys leave?”

“No fair!” Bahorel cried. “How come he gets to be the leader? I want to be the leader!”

Fueilly smirked behind his laptop screen. “Maybe next time, big guy. We can leave as soon as you need us to. Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes,” Enjolras agreed.

Across the room, Bahorel was in an outrage. “ _Big guy?_ I’ll big guy you, you little Polish freak!”

“Mmhmm,” Feuilly was barely listening, fixated on his computer. “I’ve got the location. It’s not far; we can walk.”

“Everyone else?” Enjolras called, and the remaining Amis snapped to attention. “See if you can find a way to hack into the base’s cameras, security footage, anything. Anything that could help us figure out what happened.”

“On it,” said a brunette named Joly from his place on the couch. He put his glasses on his head and squinted at the tablet in front of him. Beside him, Bossuet, a taller boy who was wearing a blue beanie to mask the fact that he had no hair, looked over his shoulder as he typed frantically. The woman on Bossuet’s other side dialed a number into her phone and began speaking very fast in a language that was neither English nor French.

Feuilly, Bahorel, and Courfeyrac left the room to don their outfits, and Enjolras collapsed into his seat with a heavy sigh. Combeferre chuckled slightly from over his laptop screen.

“Weight of the world on your shoulders, E?”

“Sometimes it feels like it,” he agreed, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, I _get_ that he cares. Of course he does. We all do. It’s Jehan, after all. It would be the same if it were any of us.”

“But not for Courfeyrac,” Combeferre murmured.

“Not for Courfeyrac,” Enjolras sighed. “Of course not. Jehan is the light of his world, his sun and moon and stars. Of course he’s worried. We all are. But it’s a distraction, and in these times, especially with what we’re doing-”

“Distractions can get you killed.” Combeferre closed his laptop and moved his chair closer to Enjolras. “But you’re acting just as distracted as he is. We’ll find Jehan, I promise. Don’t worry.”

“‘M not worrying,” Enjolras muttered, but Combeferre laughed.

“I know you too well, E. Back to work.”

***

“Alright, guys, this is it,” Feuilly muttered into his comms unit, which was conveniently disguised as a hearing aid so that if he were stopped on the street, he wouldn’t look suspicious, wouldn’t look like the revolutionary he was. Not that it mattered, since he had a cash prize for his capture and an entire country looking for him and the rest of Les Amis for that very reason.

But perhaps a normal looking civilian, flanked by two other normal civilians, wouldn’t raise any alarms. Not that they’d ever been (or would ever be) anything close to normal. They were, after all, three teenagers walking around at midnight, and if that wasn’t suspicious, then nothing was.

“This is it,” Bahorel agreed with a sigh, fiddling with his diamond earring. He could totally rock the gangster look, with his dreadlocks and loose clothing and earring, not that it mattered. Not that Fueilly was even paying attention to that.

“But no pressure,” Courfeyrac said with a smile, and Feuilly laughed despite the serious situation. This was the Courf they knew and loved. Not that broken boy staring at a computer screen with tears in his eyes as the love of his life got caught by the gov-bots.

They started out down the street at a casual walk, talking about nothing, whatever came to mind, normal, everyday things to talk about, not only for fear of a passerby overhearing them, but for the security cameras and nearby gov-bots, and partly just to fill the eerie silence of the city after dark. Courfeyrac mentioned a paper he was supposedly writing, for a class he didn’t take, at a university he was forced to leave a year ago when the government had a major makeover and life as everyone knew it went to hell. Les Amis were a college group intent on changing the world, but when it actually happened, they were thrown off balance and forced to regroup in secret as the gov-bots cracked down on any and all activist groups. Pretty soon, there were only a few known revolutionaries left, Les Amis being one of the most famous. They had evaded capture for over a year, and hopefully their luck would continue to hold out.

Bahorel chimed in with a comment about the pretty girl that sat behind him in chemistry when Feuilly knew for a fact that Bahorel had dropped out of school ages ago, hadn’t been a science major or even minor, and Bahorel hadn’t been into girls since the seventh grade when he had kissed Feuilly behind the gym “for science.” Feuilly _knew_ all this, and yet, as Bahorel went on about the shade of green her eyes were, he felt slightly nauseous, and thinking about the middle school kiss wasn’t helping matters.

As Bahorel talked, Feuilly tried to tune him out and Courfeyrac tapped at his earpiece, concern written all over his face. Feuilly knew how hard this was for him, and he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. We’ll get him home.”

Courfeyrac nodded absently, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“Mi amis,” Feuilly said in a low voice. “Where are we going?”

 _“You mean you don’t know?”_ squawked Joly in his ear, and Bahorel and Courfeyrac flinched, obviously hearing his voice as well. “ _Why would you go out on a potentially dangerous mission-”_ Here someone said something in the background and Joly sighed. “ _Sorry, never mind. Anyways, your coordinates are fine, you’re headed in the right direction. There’s going to be a church on your right, see it?”_

When all three of them answered in the affirmative, Joly replied, “ _Good, good, now take a left at the intersection of the road right in front of the church, okay? This will take you down a back road and into a stretch of forest where Jehan’s last satellite projection was. Scout around for a bit and report any findings, okay?”_

“Got it,” Bahorel said, and took the lead. As they passed the church and got a look inside one of the dark windows, Feuilly shuddered. All places of worship had been shut down after the government reboot, as the government now dictated everything, even religious choices, which, frankly, was an asshole thing to do, Feuilly thought. He hadn’t ever been a hardcore religious person, but surely there was _someone_ up there who cared, and now even the believing in whatever-that-someone-was had been banned.

They found the woods, no problem, and stood for a moment at the start of the path, letting their eyes adjust to the pitch darkness of the wooded expanse stretching in front of them. Bahorel pulled out a beat up old iPhone and activated the flashlight. A beam of light illuminated the path, and however spooky it had looked in the dark, it was now about three times worse with a faint white glow surrounding everything.

“So what’s the plan?” Bahorel whispered.

“Look around for clues,” Courfeyrac murmured, so soft, Feuilly almost didn’t hear him. “Follow the clues to wherever they are holding that precious boy, and raise holy hell until we get him back safe and sound.”

“Sounds like one hell of a plan to me,” laughed Feuilly. “Stay together. ‘Rel, be prepared to cut that light out at a moment’s notice, like if we see or hear _anything_ , got it?”

His two companions nodded, and they set off down the path, keeping an eye out for anything that may serve as a clue. After a couple hundred yards, Courfeyrac let out something like a whimper and pointed a shaking finger to the ground, where there had obviously been a scuffle of some kind. Boot marks and scuffed dirt littered the area, and not a foot from Courfeyrac’s own boots was a disturbingly large puddle of something that looked eerily like-

“Blood,” whispered Courfeyrac, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Holy shit, they’ve killed him. Holy _shit_ , Feuilly, they’ve killed him, he’s dead, I’m never going to see him again oh my god…”

Bahorel pointed the beam of light at the puddle, and Feuilly knelt to examine the liquid. As the sharp scent of iron hit his nose, he nodded to Bahorel. It was blood, alright. And there weren’t that many people the government would harm this badly just for walking in the woods.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac continued to babble. “He’s gone, he’s dead, holy _crap_ holy _shit_ oh my god I can’t do this-”

“Shut up, Courf,” Bahorel and Feuilly snapped at once, and only then did Feuilly realize that Combeferre was in his ear, calling his name insistently, and he probably had been for the past minute or so.

“Yes,” he said, only it came out as a sort of croak. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Ferre. I’m here. We’re fine. We’re all fine. No one’s hurt.”

“No one except _the love of my life_!” shrieked Courfeyrac, and sank to the ground, crying softly. Feuilly just stood there, shell-shocked, as Bahorel relayed to Combeferre and the rest of the team back at base exactly what they were seeing.

A gigantic puddle of blood wasn’t good. Not at all. And suddenly the chances of getting their friend back seemed slimmer. The government had followed him back from their headquarters all the way here. He’d almost made it. He was so close. But they had caught him, and beat him so hard he had lost a full puddle of blood, and then they had dragged him off to some torture chamber, awaiting his most certain death.

Something wasn’t right. Feuilly thought back to the recording they’d heard of Jehan getting beaten up. The gov-bots hadn’t taken him to some secret room and then beat the shit out of him. They had done it here. Less than a mile from Les Amis’ home base. _In range of the comms unit,_ so everyone back at base could hear. Why? And why hadn’t they bothered to clean up the mess of blood that would certainly cause unwanted questions in the morning unless-

“Bahorel, light off now,” Feuilly snapped, and the forest went blindingly dark. Courfeyrac’s crying stopped in a heartbeat, and he could be heard getting unsteadily to his feet.

“What is it?” Bahorel breathed.

“Something isn’t adding up, guys.” Feuilly whispered. “They didn’t clean up the blood. They should have cleaned up the blood so as not to raise unwanted questions when a random civilian comes across this in the morning. They also beat Jehan up right here, instead of dragging him off to do it somewhere more secure. Why would they do that, unless-?”

“Unless they knew we were coming after him.” Courfeyrac’s voice was shaky, but however unstable he might have been, he wasn’t an idiot. “They knew we would come to rescue him, or at least investigate his disappearance.”

“They could be watching us right now,” Bahorel said in a hushed tone, and all three of them went very still, listening for a footstep, a gun safety clicking off, anything.

There was dead silence all around for about forty-five seconds, and then, a blaring spotlight cut on and a man’s deep voice said, “Well done, boys, you’ve found our plans out. Now it’s time to die like your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorrynotsorry i'll see when i can get the next chapter up
> 
> much love
> 
> kudos and comments make me happy?yes
> 
> i'm sorry about the cliffhanger
> 
> *shoves kevin in front of me* plz i am but a small child don't hurt me i'm sorry
> 
> i would also like to take the time to apologize to my sweet child jehan and my precious children bahorel, feuilly, and courf. they don't know what they're in for. *evil laughter*
> 
> i'm rambling again. sorry
> 
> i need coffee.
> 
> -byrd


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which an old friend is lost, a new friend is gained, and a (semi) successful plan is (finally) made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me again! I got another great comment from DayOfTheBethan- thank you so much! comments keep me going (well, that and kevin. and coffee. OOH and chocolate). there's some more violence in this chapter, but i mean if they're listening to it over the comms unit it's not technically onscreen?? better safe than sorry. 
> 
> i apologize in advance for any pain this may cause you
> 
> and i once again hide behind the amazing kevin. plz dont hurt me
> 
> here goes. chapter 2. 
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Two_

Back at the base of Les Amis, everyone had frozen. No one dared move or even breathe, listening to the horror that was unfolding through the comms units on the coffee table.

The man with the harsh accent continued speaking, and several people leaned closer to the coffee table in order to hear better, which was futile since the entire base was as silent as a tomb.

“ _You’ve figured it out, children. Excellent. You aren’t idiots. We only expect the best from Les Amis, the infamous rebels, after all.”_

There was the sound of boots against the dirt path, a dull _squelch_ as the gov-bot stepped in what could only be their partner’s blood. “ _Unfortunately, boys, our time is up. So if you go without a fight, we might consider sparing your lives and using you as examples to the public. Look at these rebels. See where it got them?”_ The gov-bot laughed, cold and high, and every member of Les Amis shuddered.

“ _Like hell,”_ Bahorel said, and there was the sound of him spitting. “ _We aren’t going anywhere with you. Now tell us what you’ve done with Jehan.”_

“ _Oh, was that his name?”_ the gov-bot purred. “ _He refused to disclose even that information to us. He’s quite a loyal little thing, but so fragile, so easy to break. But his screams were such fun to listen to.”_

 _“What the hell have you done to him?”_ Courfeyrac’s voice didn’t even waver, the brokenness from earlier replaced with stone-cold anger. “ _Tell us what you’ve done to him.”_

 _“Your pretty little teammate is dead,”_ hissed the gov-bot, and time slowed down.

There were times, working with such a group as Les Amis, that the members joked that they were becoming codependent. Combeferre would know the answer to one of Enjolras’ questions before it was even out of his mouth. Musichetta would have a fact or figure up on her computer screen before anyone even had to ask. Bahorel or Feuilly would pass a pen or piece of paper or the phone to Joly without it having to be requested. Bossuet’s unlucky tendencies were as common as anything, and each member of the group was prepared for just about any of his bad luck at any time. When Enjolras got lost in a particularly impassioned speech, Combeferre or Courfeyrac would bring him back to the present. And sure enough, the members seemed to be connected mentally. When something devastating happened, they all knew about it before the news was announced.

Over the past year or so, it had become even more defined, what with them living in the same underground base, rooming together, living together, and getting used to each other’s habits and ways of life. So when the gov-bot had spit out the words that they had all been dreading, the air around them seemed to freeze as each member took in the news.

On one of the comms units, there was a wail that could only be Courfeyrac, and the noise was so full of pain and agony that each of Les Amis felt it resonate in their bones. When Courfeyrac’s crying started, they each felt as though it were coming from themselves.

Suddenly, over the unit, there was the sound of an impact; a fist hitting flesh, then, Bahorel was screaming at them to _run, bloody freaking run, back to base._ Everyone collectively held in a breath as there were noises of fighting, hands against skin, boots pounding the pavement, and then the sound of combat faded, and all that was left were footsteps. More than one pair, and relief spread through the room like wildfire. They were okay. They were on their way back. Lord only knew how they had gotten rid of the gov-bots, but it didn’t matter, they were on their way.

Feuilly’s voice came from the unit, and everyone jumped. “ _Oh my god. We’re coming, everyone. We’re on our way, we’re coming.”_ He was out of breath and obviously scared out of his mind, but the room of Amis didn’t care. Their friends were returning to them, and weren’t injured, weren’t dead, weren’t another hopeless case due to bad timing and a cut off comm.

They should have guessed that their good luck could only go so far.

There was the sudden sound of impact, and someone cried out. There was an almighty thud, and one of the three comms units on the coffee table burst into static.

Enjolras jumped up, face white. “Find out whose unit that was,” he ordered, and Combeferre nodded, already on his laptop.

Over the unit that must have been Feuilly’s, Feuilly yelled something indistinguishable, and Courfeyrac started crying again. So it had been Bahorel’s that had cut off. But why?

They strained their ears, and through Feuilly’s comm, they could hear blow after blow being rained down upon someone, and someone yelling- Bahorel. The gov-bots had caught up and were hurting Bahorel.

“- _Et off him, you bloody assholes! Get off!”_ Feuilly cried, and Bahorel yelled something else. “ _No way, shithead! I’m not leaving you! Courf, go, now! I’ll see you back at base!”_

 _“Like hell,”_ snapped Courfeyrac, and the sounds of combat continued until there was the sound of a gov-bot’s gun being fired.

Feuilly screamed, a long, pain-filled sound that was so full of shock and anger and _grief_ that they felt it resonating all the way back at base.

Dead silence. Marius burst into tears, and the others blinked hard through misty eyes.

Then there was running, running, running, boots pounding the ground, although it was one pair or three was hard to tell.

“ _It’s me.”_ Feuilly’s voice resonated through the silent base, and Les Amis hung on his every word. “ _We’re coming, let us in, please, they aren’t far behind.”_

His voice, though out of breath, was shockingly calm, and none of the Amis knew what it could mean. Someone had just been shot. Even if all three of them were alive, one was shot and needed medical care. Feuilly should not have been as calm as he was.

Combeferre silently shut the lid of his laptop. He had known the ginger Pole the longest, and he knew exactly what the dead calm meant. It was the calm before a storm with Feuilly. It always was. He kept his emotions bottled up, put on a calm, brave, careless mask, and let his feelings slowly destroy him. He had said it was habit, from living in so many abusive foster homes that didn’t appreciate weak children, and Combeferre believed it.

Over time, after a few years with Les Amis, Feuilly had learned not to hide his emotions so much. He’d gotten better at sharing what was on his mind, but Combeferre knew with striking certainty that something positively awful had happened over that comms unit, that Feuilly wasn’t letting on.

They would find out soon enough.

Combeferre was dreading it. Anything that bothered the skinny but well-toned boxer who used to work six jobs a week, all including manual labor of some sort, who wasn’t afraid of anything and cared for next to no one outside of the Amis, Combeferre didn’t want to meet.

A knock on the roof sounded, and everyone waited with bated breath for the signature knock that was code. Of course, they also had three different security systems hooked up to that one door, including a retina scanner, fingerprint identification, and voice key, but the knock was tradition.

When the code sounded (three short knocks, one long one, then a slap to the door), and the security systems beeped their approval, the hatch slid open and the ladder extended.

Everyone watched as Feuilly stepped off the ladder, hugging his side, and Courfeyrac stumbled off, falling to his knees and choking on his own breath.

The ladder slid back up into the ceiling, and the hatch closed.

There was dead silence in the bunker, save for the rasping of Courfeyrac and Feuilly, and then Marius dared to speak.

“You’re alright?”

Feuilly took a shuddering breath and removed his hand from the stitch in his side. Instead of answering, however, he simply nodded.

Courfeyrac was more verbal in his affirmations. “No, we aren’t freaking alright. The love of my life is dead, and my friend was just shot in front of us no I am _not_ freaking okay, Pontmercy. I need water.”

A glass was passed forward, and Courfeyrac took a grateful sip before continuing. “I also need my boyfriend and friend back.”

“No can do, Courf,” someone said sadly, and Courfeyrac nodded numbly. “I know. I freaking know.”

Then he began to cry, great, gasping sobs that shook his entire body and were nothing like the whimpers from over the comms unit. Feuilly marched away, onto the couch, where he stared at nothing. It was finally Joly who came over and put a tentative arm around the ginger’s shoulders. When Feuilly didn’t immediately shrug him off, Joly hugged him tight. Bossuet joined him on Feuilly’s other side, and they made quite the sight- a scrawny freckled redhead being held by a tiny brunette and a bigger bald boy.

Courfeyrac remained on the ground, crying, and after ensuring that the security was at its highest level to avoid any other catastrophes, Combeferre knelt beside him. Courfeyrac immediately wrapped him tight, breathing in the familiar smell of his best friend and letting out great gasping sobs that punctuated the otherwise silent air.

Musichetta joined Enjolras on the other couch and without a word, they gravitated towards an awkward but well-meaning hug.

Les Amis stayed like this, in their various cuddle piles, in varying levels of melancholy, until the little boy fell through the roof.

***

He came, literally, out of the blue. One second, the Amis were silent and solemn, mourning the loss of not one but two partners, and the next second, they were scrambling for their weapons as the hatch opened and someone tumbled through, not bothering to deploy the ladder.

He landed on his feet and steadied himself before looking around at the seven laser guns now pointed at him. He didn’t even have the decency to look scared; instead, he smirked and looked the Amis each in the eyes, one by one.

“You ain’t gonna shoot a kid, I know you ain’t,” he said, an amused undertone to his voice and a maturity that didn’t match his ten-year-old body. “And besides, I come bearing news.”

Reluctantly, the guns were lowered, because as badass a Les Amis acted, the boy was right about one thing- they didn’t shoot children.

“Well?” Enjolras demanded.

The boy took his time answering, strolling into the kitchenette and swiping an apple before making his way back into the center of the circle of Les Amis, center stage, all attention on him.

“First of all,” he murmured around a mouthful of apple, “your security system sucks. Seriously, a toddler could get through that. I’m surprised Patron Minette hasn’t come for you yet. Second thing-”

“Wait, Patron Minette is still active?” Combeferre asked, leaning forward. “They’ve been keeping quiet. No activity in the past six months, not since-”

“The leader was arrested, and they scattered.” The boy nodded.

“How do you know that?” Enjolras asked, trying to sound accusatory, but curiosity plain in his tone.

“B’cause the leader of Patron Minette is my old man,” the boy said with a sneer. “That’s not the point. The point is, they got back together a month later, decided to lie low for a while as they regrouped, let other rebels stir up some trouble for a change. Anyways, I have a message for you from an ally.”

The boy spoke with such a matter of fact tone that the Amis were momentarily startled into shocked silence. Then Musichetta spoke.

“You’re Gavroche Thenardier.”

“That would be me,” he agreed. “Any more dumb questions, or d’ya want the message?”

“Depends,” Bossuet rumbled. “Who’s the message from?”

“An… ally.” Gavroche spoke the word with a cautious tone of voice.

“Who?” Enjolras asked.

“Can’t tell ya. That’s against my honor code, seein’ as they asked me not to tell.”

Feuilly snorted. “Honor code? You’re a Thenardier.”

“That I am,” he agreed. “ ‘Cept some of us have still got a sense of what’s right, what’s wrong, and what’s so wrong we’d get sent straight to th’ fiery pits of hell just for thinkin’ it. I tend to stay somewhere between right and wrong. D’ya want your bloody message or not?”

“Yes!” Combeferre shouted, causing Courfeyrac to jump beside him. “Yes, I mean. We would love to hear the message.”

“Here goes.” Gavroche swallowed his bite of apple and cleared his throat.

“ _The raven is alive and awaiting its escape route. Don’t fail me now, boys.”_

There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind who had sent the message, but it made no sense. The sender was dead, had been dead for several months, ever since her failed mission that had gotten her caught and executed deep within the confines of a top-secret government base.

Well, _supposedly_ executed, anyways. Because if what this boy said was true, then she was alive. Alive and ready to escape. Ready to come home.

“Is this-” Marius seemed at a loss for words. “Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Gavroche replied quietly. “It ain’t a joke, I promise. Thenard-” He seemed to rethink it. “Gavroche’s word of honor. Swear.”

“How did she get this message to you?” Enjolras asked.

Gavroche shrugged. “I know my way around.”

“You mean, you hacked the government’s servers just like our front door, snuck in, got her message from her, and snuck back out,” Combeferre sighed.

“Right. That’s what I said. So you got a plan, or what?”

“One more question,” Enjolras said, and Gavroche groaned. “Why did she trust you? How did she believe you would go to her, get her message, and then find us? How can you be trusted?”

“How can I be trusted?” Gavroche’s voice had turned gravelly. “Because she’s my sister. Siblings look out for each other. That’s the rules.”

More shocked silence.

Joly laughed nervously, as though sure this was all a joke. “Eponine isn’t your sister. She would have said something about a little brother, wouldn’t she?”

“And besides,” Marius added. “Her last name is Jondrette, not Thenardier.”

“Nah, it’s Thenardier. She ditched the name soon as she was legally able,” Gavroche said, thoughtfully examining the apple core for pieces he may have missed. “But she’s one of us, sure as hell.”

“Don’t curse, it’s rude,” Musichetta chided, almost as an automatic impulse, but the comment itself was something of an inside joke among the Amis. Back in college, they had kept a swear jar at meetings, racking up hundreds of dollars that they then used to treat themselves in various ways. When the apocalypse (for lack of a better word) had begun and they all retreated to their first hideout, the swear jar had been lost and now they all just teased each other about it.

“So what’s the plan?” Gavroche sauntered around Bossuet and plopped his thin frame onto the beat up old red couch. “I assume you’re plannin’ on bustin’ her out, but if it went anything like today did, you all are in for hell.”

Fueilly’s face went white and Courfeyrac just barely managed to swallow back a sob at the mention of the previous events. Enjolras merely frowned.

“How did you know about what happened today?”

“Was it some big secret?” Gavroche shrugged. “They caught two members of the country’s highest ranking revolutionary group. You’d better believe they’d make that shit _public_.”

“Language,” Musichetta muttered, but her heart clearly wasn’t into it.

“And besides,” the small boy continued, “the signs is plain to see. You’re missing two members. Any idiot with brains knows that Les Amis De L’ABC have nine members, ten if you count ‘Ponine. And it must have happened fairly recently, or I’d have heard something about it from P- from my sources. Also, your poker faces _suck_.” He pointed to Joly. “You look like someone just scared the ever-living shit outta ya.” He gestured to Courfeyrac. “You look like you’re trying to swallow a golf ball. And you…” He sighed as he looked at Feuilly. “Man, your poker face is actually amazin’. Really, I’m jealous. But your hands are clenched around that gun _way_ too tight t’ be normal.” He addressed the room at whole. “Ya need to step up your game, gentlemen. If them gov-bots managed to follow you back here, there’s gonna be hell to pay, especially now that your control panel is in a smoking heap by your front hatch.”

“ _What?!_ ” several voices cried back. Combeferre actually made a move to check before Enjolras put out a hand.

“No, we’ll fix it later. Hold on.” He turned to the ten-year-old on the couch. “You’re right. Since we’re such _amateurs_ , perhaps you have a plan.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Gavroche stretched like a small, lanky cat and grinned. “‘Ere’s the deal. Y’all let me do my thing, and I’ll stay out of your way, _comprendo_?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Feuilly demanded, obviously still miffed from the boy’s previous comment.

“It means that if you give me a comms unit and send me in under heavy protection, I can get my sister outta there.”

“We aren’t sending you in alone,” Courfeyrac immediately protested.

“I got in on my own before, didn’t I? I’ll be fine. I just need a comm an’ your word that you won’ abandon me in the middle of it.”

“You aren’t doing this,” Enjolras said, his voice firm. “There’s no way we can get a ten-year-old in and out of a top security government building without being detected and caught.”

“And why am I any less useful than any of ya?” Gavroche’s voice took on a sharp tone. “I’m smaller, I’m faster, an’ you _have_ the tech needed, you proved it today. Send me in, an’ I’ll get Eponine out of there, safe an’ sound.”

“We don’t have the tech, that’s the problem.”

“Y’ sent a guy in las’ night!”

“Yes, and look how well that turned out! In case your _sources_ hadn’t picked it up, Jehan is _dead_!”

“ _GUYS!”_

Both Gavroche and Enjolras turned to look at a very pale-faced Courfeyrac, who was holding a shaky hand up for silence.

“Guys,” he tried again, more calm this time. “Enjolras is right, Gavroche. We can't let you go in there alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone!” Gavroche whined. “I would have alluv ya on comms. An’ besides, what’s it t’ you if I don’ make it? Y’ don’t know me. Y’ don’t care ‘bout me. I’m an expendable resource.”

There was no malice in his voice; quite the opposite. He sounded genuine, like he desperately wanted to help them and knew he didn’t matter to them. He really believed he didn’t matter, and something inside Courfeyrac’s heart twisted into knots. Was this how Jehan had felt in his last moments? Unwanted, alone, _expendable?_

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned back to Gavroche. “Let’s say we did let you go in there. What exactly is your plan?”

“Simple. I bypass them security measures, which haven’t been updated since, like, last month, an’ then I sneak inside. No one notices a shadow on the wall, so long as I be doin’ this right. Eponine’s on the twenty-fourth level down under the ground, an’ her cell number’s in th’ 600s, so I know where to be goin’. If one o’ you lot back here can bypass the system, the cell doors all unlock for a maximum of eight seconds, long enough for security t’ know something’s wrong, but not long enough for anyone t’ do any actual escapin’. Unless you’s a Thenardier, that is. I get Eponine out lickety-split an’ make a mad dash like holy hell for the doors. A getaway car’ll be waitin’ outside, an’ we steps on the gas and gets the hell outta there. Mission accomplished.”

Enjolras looked amused, but Combeferre looked thoughtful. “That could only work if you could drive and have someone bypass the system for you, giving you those precious eight seconds.”

“I can drive,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “I bin drivin’ since I turned eight.”

“How is that legal?” Enjolras spluttered.

“Never said it was, blondie. Point is, I can drive. That takes care of that issue. An’ I know for certain that at least some, if not all, o’ ya can hack the servers.”

“How do you know that?” Feuilly asked.

“Y’ wouldn’ be Les Amis if y’ couldn’t.” Gavroche shrugs. “That’s the plan. Unless you got another one…”

Enjolras would have protested, Combeferre would have pulled up an outline for a new plan, much better and safer than this insane suicide mission, Courfeyrac would have promised that Gavroche could still help with this new plan without being directly on the front lines. Because this was how the trio worked, side-by-side, almost mentally connected. There was only one issue. They didn’t _have_ a better plan.

Enjolras sighed heavily. “How soon do you want to do this?”

“Depends.” Combeferre reopened the lid of his laptop. “How fast can we get it done?”

Enjolras started to respond, but Gavroche cut him off. “An hour and a half, tops.”

There was nervous laughter all around, as though everyone were sure this wisp of a child was kidding. It was a good thirty minutes’ walk to the front entrance of the base, assuming that was the direction they wanted to enter, which seemed like a painfully obvious way to get caught. It was another ten minute trek around to the back doors, and then there were security systems to override, lights and surveillance tapes to cut out, cameras to hack and kill the battery. And then there was the matter of getting to the twenty-fourth level down without being detected, meaning more of the same thing. The guards would have to be distracted with something else, meaning Feuilly would have to use his pyrotechnic skill to set something off on the opposite side of the base. That wouldn’t distract all the guards, though; they were trained military gov-bots, not goons with half a brain, so the remaining ones would have to be taken down via some knockout gas, filtered through the air vents. This was Joly and Musichetta’s field of expertise, and it would be quite the job. Enough gas to knock out all the half-human, half-robots, in the area, but not enough to make it to Eponine’s cell. Strong enough to take out several guards, but not one ten-year-old kid and one teenage girl. Then there was the matter of how long the stuff lasted.

Once Gavroche actually made it to Eponine’s cell, Combeferre would have to work some crazy magic to override the systems, giving him exactly eight seconds to get into the cell, grab his sister, and get the hell out of there before the doors locked once more. Then they would just have to make their way up twenty-three floors, sprint for the exit, which would hopefully be unlocked and unguarded, if everything went according to plan, and make their getaway.

Which it rarely ever did, Combeferre thought gloomily. Look at where sticking to the plan had gotten them tonight- two members of Les Amis dead and several more in various states of shock.

The “getaway car,” as Gavroche had called it, would be a problem, too. Only very rich bourgeois owned cars anymore, but Gavroche was a Thenardier. He got around. He knew people. Les Amis did not. They were a solo group, working without anyone else, no help, no backup, very few allies. So if worst came to worst, the getaway vehicle might have to be their own feet as they made a mad dash back to base.

Combeferre wondered, if Jehan, a trained member of a revolution, with amazing legs from years of soccer and breath support that could rival anyone’s from years of singing, hadn’t made it, then how could one little boy and one malnourished, probably beaten and tortured and weak teenaged girl make it back?

“This is insane,” he said, and everyone murmured some sort of agreement. “It’s crazy, and will take a ton of planning and some sort of genius on our part and yours, Gavroche, but it just might work.”

“Ferre-” Enjolras began, but he was cut off by Feuilly.

“No, he’s right. We can do this.” He turned to the group, no longer bothering to hide his emotions. He was _pissed_ about his best friend in the world dying by a shot from one of those assholes, and he planned on making them pay. “It’ll be difficult, and we’ll need to give a hundred and ten percent, but we’ve got this, I know we do. Let’s start now. Courfeyrac, go help Gavroche get suited up. Everyone else, prepare yourselves. This’ll be one hell of a long night for all of us. Joly, coffee for all of us. Enj, do your thing.”

Everyone seemed at a loss for words for a moment. Then Enjolras cracked a grin despite himself. “That was quite the motivational speech, Feuilly. You heard the guy. Let’s do this thing.”

“For Jehan and Bahorel?” Marius tentatively asked, then flinched as if he expected this to be shot down.

“For Jehan and Bahorel,” Feuilly agreed, clapping him on the back. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayyy gavroche! he's a fav of mine, which should by now be obvious. 
> 
> sorry, bahorel.
> 
> and jehan.
> 
> love ya.
> 
> also eponine!....enjoy her while you can *evil laughter*
> 
> cimble camble byrd likes to ramble
> 
> i'm amusing myself by watching les mis (again)
> 
> ooh ooh i have a tumblr: to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> (just in case you thought i couldn't be any more of a nerd, the good Lord said 'here's some musical theater, and a community of others who also love musical theater that you can fangirl with. knock yourself out.')
> 
> come and visit me! i only bite occasionally (on mondays)
> 
> hope you enjoyed! I'll try to have the next chapter up asap
> 
> -byrd


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we finally meet eponine, gavroche is a national treasure and is smarter than everyone else combined, and the author shamelessly puts les mis references into a les mis fanfiction. 
> 
> go figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys i sound like a broken record (and a whiny toddler) but PLEEEEASE, if you like this story at all, tell me!! i like to know what i'm doing right...(and wrong. i appreciate criticism, too!) 
> 
> 100ish hits. which is amazing. 
> 
> but i don't know whether these 100ish people liked it or hated it or clicked on it by accident (it gave me hits i'm not complaining)
> 
> so tell me what you think!
> 
> this chapter was completed and edited while watching HSM bc why not
> 
> as always, thank you to the lovely kevin
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Three_

Eponine considered herself an optimist. She really did. When things got tough, she prided herself in knowing that it could always be worse. Growing up the oldest child of the country’s most well-known con man and drug lord had taught her several things, not all of them horrible. Never desert a mission if you think there’s still profit to be gained. Crying is a childish and pointless action, unless being used to con someone out of their riches, in which case, it was a tool to be used wisely. If someone is valuable to you, don’t abandon them. Things could always, _always_ be worse, and don’t jinx it by saying idiotic things like, “Well, this couldn’t get any worse.”

So yes, she was an optimist by heart, having it drilled into her brain at a young age.

But even Eponine agreed that being stuck in a cell for a little over five months _sucked_. She was bored out of her mind and aching all over from various bumps and scrapes and bruises. She felt grimy and disgusting, her dark hair greasy and tangled, her face probably covered in bumps from not showering since she’d arrived six months ago.

When a mission had gone wrong and she’d been caught in a high-security room with her hand halfway into a drawer marked TOP SECRET- NO TRESPASSING, she figured she was in for it. People didn’t just mess with the government and get away with it. She decided to brace herself for whatever was coming her way.

All the prepping in the world wouldn’t have prepared her for what they did to her. The first month, they tortured her. There was no other way to put it, no pretty little word to use for the way they treated her. They caused her physical pain until she screamed, begging them to stop, and then they did it some more.

And the disgusting part was, they weren’t even looking for information. They knew everything they needed about her partners, Les Amis De L’ABC, from the comms unit they had dug out of her ear and traced back to their base, although she didn’t know whether this meant they’d already attacked their headquarters, or maybe her friends had sensed something was wrong when her comms unit relayed to them the sounds of her getting chased down and captured and had moved bases. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

It was quite a frustrating feeling.

After the first month of hell, they had stopped dragging her out of a restless sleep every morning and beating her half to death all day and simply moved her up a few levels to the standard cells, where she had spent the past five months.

Her cell was made of a mixture of stone and metal, steel bars enforcing hard rock and more bars crisscrossing the front of the cell so she could look out into the prison and see her fellow inmates in their cells. The door was rusted and wouldn’t budge no matter how many times she threw herself at it. She began to doubt if it was even able to be opened at all, wondering if the guards were choosing to let her stay in here, or they just really couldn’t get the door open.

Twice a day, a meal was slid through the bars, usually some variation of a slice of bread and a chunk of meat with a flimsy plastic fork. She had ten minutes to eat the meal before a gov-bot came back to collect the tray, programmed not to leave until both the fork and the tray were in its possession, so trying to keep them was pointless. There were no windows, so she had no idea of the time of day. For all she knew, she was screwing up her sleep schedule forever by going to bed and waking at abnormal hours. She had tried, on the first day, to count the seconds, thinking that if she was resourceful, like in the movies, she could keep track of the time.

She’d lost count at three-thousand sixty two, and had given up at that point. She had, however, gathered that her food came every twelve hours, so that was a start. She’d started making tick marks in the stone wall with the black sole of her boot, and she’d figured she’d been in here around six months, tops. Only once did a human come to see her- a tall man with a face like a weasel, who had snidely informed her through the bars of the cell that Eponine Thenardier had been executed for treason against the government. She had stared at him, uncomprehending, until he had clarified.

“At least, that’s what the rest of the world thinks,” he sneered. “We’ve told them you’re dead, executed in the basement of a top-secret underground bunker. Your team wouldn’t risk their lives trying to save a corpse, now would they? You, miss, are on you own.”

She had simply glared at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing the quaver in her voice, and he had strode off down the hall. Only once he was out of earshot did she sink down into a sitting position and clap a hand over her mouth.

“On my own,” she had whispered. “You’re all alone now, Ponine.”

That had been five months ago. Now, along with the hopelessness of her situation, she felt a tiny spark of hope. Her brother, who she hadn’t seen or been in contact with since the government shut down, had visited, secretly, in the dead of night, he claimed, and he passed on her message to the boys back at base. Now she just needed to know whether they would risk their tails for what could very well be a trick. Gavroche wasn’t exactly the most innocent-looking of children, after all, and the fact that a ten-year-old could get in and out of here undetected was, frankly, laughable. And she hadn’t exactly _told_ her friends her real last name and the fact that her father was one of the most famous crime lords in this half of the world.

Slowly, her hope began to deplete. Maybe they weren’t coming. There was a lot she hadn’t told them, and unless they took Gavroche’s news to heart, she was still considered dead. Maybe her message hadn’t been clear enough. Maybe they suspected a trick set by the government and wouldn’t show. So many things could go wrong, it was pointless to hope that anything was going to happen.

“They aren’t coming, Ponine,” she whispered, curling into a ball. “You’re still on your own.”

Eponine had once considered herself an optimist.

Maybe not so much anymore.

***

To say that the headquarters of Les Amis De L’ABC was tense was putting it lightly.

To say that the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife was still an understatement.

Between the combined tension of Enjolras, who was pacing the room; Combeferre, who was rolling a pen in his hands, face pale; Feuilly, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white, and Musichetta, who was nibbling on a nail, beautiful dark skin a shade paler than usual, Courfeyrac was amazed the room didn’t spontaneously combust.

Gavroche’s voice came tinny and shallow over the comms unit in its usual place on the coffee table; he seemed to be singing a song that appeared to be a more juvenile, made-up-on-the-spot version of “screw the police,” and despite the danger that the kid was in, Courfeyrac had to smile.

The song stopped, as did the sound of footsteps, and everyone leaned in close, determined not to miss a word. “Alright, guys,” the comms unit said. “This is it. I can see th’ building. Get ready.”

The team sprang into position. Feuilly and Enjolras each whipped out their phones. Courfeyrac scooted closer to the coffee table, ready to relay any instructions directly to Gavroche. Musichetta booted up her laptop as Joly tapped away on his tablet and Bossuet sat patiently with the charger in case it was needed; he had been specifically instructed by at least three people not to move at the risk of destroying a priceless electronic with a year’s worth of data on it. No one trusted him with a computer, so he’d been given charger duty.

Combeferre typed something into his own computer and watched scrolls of data roll across the screen as he overrode the main security system.

“He’s got ten minutes,” he called, and Courfeyrac leaned in close to the comms unit.

“You’ve got ten minutes to get in and out of there, _petit._ Make those minutes count.”

“On it,” the boy promised, and the sound of feet running started up again.

Gavroche, as they soon figured out, had the inexplicable ability to do anything with ease, including sneak into a top-secret government base. There was the occasional rattle or clang of metal over the comms that made everyone jump, but after every sound, Gavroche assured them that he was fine, and they all began breathing again.

In less than a minute and a half, he whispered, “I’m in. Where’re them stairs?”

“You’re taking the stairs?” Courfeyrac asked.

“No, I thought it woul’ be a fun idea to take that there fancy shmancy elevator. Don’ mind me, just a ten-year-ol’ kid, here to do your annual security check. It sucks, have a nice day, an’ don’ bother arrestin’ me on the way out.” Gavroche snickered. “Yes, I’m taking them stairs, dumbass. Now where is they?”

Courfeyrac began to protest that the kid needed to respect his elders, even if some of those elders were idiots, when Combeferre cut him off. “Third door on your left. They should say service stairs, and they should be empty.”

“How’dja manage that?”

Feuilly snickered. “A simply _riveting_ fireworks display in the west corridor. The details aren’t important, but you should know you only have a few minutes before they’re back to do their rounds.”

“An’ they go all the way down?”

“I think so.” Combeferre hit a key on his computer and nodded. “They do.”

“Excellent. I’ll save time by doin’ this.”

“Doing what?” Combeferre asked, and was met with only silence. “Doing _what,_ Gavroche?”

“This!” he said, and there was the sound of air rushing past, very quickly, and Gavroche giggling.

“What is he _doing_?” Enjolras asked, looking over the top of his screen  with something resembling mixture of amusement and alarm on his face.

“Oh,” said Courfeyrac, understanding. “He’s sliding down the bannisters.”

_“What?”_

“They’re the railings on the sides of the stairs, you know-”

“I _know_ what bannisters are, Courfeyrac. I mean what is he doing?”

“Sliding down them, of course.” Courfeyrac’s  eyes were brighter than any of them could ever remember seeing, and his face was split by a wide grin. “I used to do it all the time.”

“And he _fully understands_ ,” Enjolras called, enunciating his words so that Gavroche could clearly hear him over the  comms unit. “How much _noise_ sliding down _several flights of stairs_ on a _metal railing_ will make.”

“Aw, Enj, let him be a kid for once,” Courfeyrac said, his grin dimming slightly. “But, Gav?”

“Yeah?”

“Be smart.”

“I ain’t ever anything else,” the boy snorted, but there was something genuine beneath the sarcasm. “I’ll be  careful. Don’ you worry.”

The sounds of sliding went on for some time and then abruptly stopped, and everyone jumped at the sudden silence.

“Gavroche?” Courfeyrac hissed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I’m good. Just the railing ended little soon, that’s all. I’m on the… twenty first floor?”

“Twenty second,” Combeferre corrected, consulting his screen. “You’ve got two more floors to go. You said you’re out of railing?”

“Calm down, Glasses, I can run,” and  he does just that, his little feet making echoing noises in the stairwell. After what they estimated to be another minute, the noise stopped and the boy reported that he was on the twenty-fourth floor.

“How many cells per floor?” Feuilly asked.

“Around a hundred,” Courfeyrac guessed. “Do you know where her cell is, Gav?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s near the stairwell. I can-  hold on.”

“Gav? Gavroche?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning in close to the comms unit.

Dead silence for thirty seconds, then, “Okay, we’re good.”

“What the hell was that? You scared us, Gavroche!” Courfeyrac hissed.

“Listen, I can’t give ya a runnin’ commentary the whole time I’m in ‘ere. That’ll get me caught fo’ sure. I’m fine, chill out. I can see her cell. Hey Ferre, is we ready fo’ the override?”

“ _Are_ we ready,” Combeferre corrected mildly. “But yes, I am. I’m giving you a countdown. Five. Four.”

The team as a whole seemed to stiffen. Hands went rigid on keyboards, faces whitened, and backs became straighter as Combeferre continued his countdown.

“…Three…”

Gavroche’s audio suddenly made a _swoosh_ , as though he had just sucked in  a breath of air. His breathing was getting faster, and as it was the only noise on  the comms unit, everyone else felt the pressure, too.

“Two…” Combeferre’s finger hovered over the button that would launch the  whole escape.

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer upward, to whoever may be listening, that this worked.

“One. Gavroche, _now!_ ”

Combeferre hit the button, and several things happened at once. Everyone collectively drew in a breath. Over the  comms, there was the sound of little feet, sprinting. And all the screens back at the headquarters went black.

“What the hell...” Feuilly murmured, tapping experimentally at his own device. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know,” Combeferre admitted, examining his laptop. “Maybe the frequency of the override messed up our own signals?”

“Gav?” Courfeyrac called. Nothing but static answered him.

“Gavroche?” The silence in the room was deafening, people staring on shock at their now blank screens or looking at each other, wondering what the _hell_ had just gone so horribly wrong.

“Hold on.” Combeferre pressed a few buttons experimentally. When his efforts produced no result, he sighed. “The  transmission of the button… it knocked out our tech signals.”

“ _English_ , Ferre. We’ve been over this.”

“ _The button screwed up our plan and now we have no functioning electronic gadgets and no communication with the ten-year-old we just sent on what may as well be  a suicide mission!_ ”

No one knew what to say, never having seen Combeferre this upset. Not even when they had lost their teammates. But this was different. Gavroche was so young, and he had trusted them wholeheartedly with getting both him and his sister out of that government base alive.

Now they would accomplish exactly zero of those.

“Gavroche?” Courfeyrac tried again. “Are you there?”

The comms unit remained unresponsive.

“Gavroche?” Marius hesitantly called.

“He can’t hear you,” mumbled Enjolras, moodily stabbing at his phone. “He can’t hear any of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Optimism,” Feuilly grumbled, closing his laptop and tossing it onto the couch next to him. “What now?”

“Now?” Combeferre swallowed, trying once more to revive his computer, to no avail. He looked up, into the pale faces of his team, faces that had already seen so much horror today, so many lost, so many failures.

He sighed. “Gavroche is still counting on us, regardless of whether or not we can reach him.” He looked up at Musichetta. “We promised him a getaway vehicle. Can we still provide one?”

Musichetta nodded, sending her chocolatey curls flying. “Just give the word, and I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

Combeferre massaged his temples. This was good. This was all good. Part of the plan may have failed, but they were still going to rescue Gavroche and hopefully Eponine. This was good.

“You might want to get that car ready,” he said. “There’s no telling when they’re going to need us, and we need to be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technological failures suck, don't they?
> 
> sorry this was kinda short. but i'll have more up.. hopefully tomorrow. 
> 
> let me know how i'm doing! comments and kudos are lovely things!
> 
> come cry with me about france: to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> -byrd


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a mission almost, a l m o s t succeeds, there is a talking car named james, and the author breaks more hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go again
> 
> welcome to the beginning of the end. there's really not much happiness from this point on, but i'll try not to be ALL doom and gloom. just... partially. 
> 
> much thanks to ShippingEverything, whose sweet comment made my day
> 
> and, as always, thank you to kevin, who actaully has internet in our school and so she frequently checks this to see any updates on kudos and whatnot. less than three, bby. 
> 
> thanks also to the guy sitting next to me on the bus this afternoon, who put up with my belting (i mean, humming) showtunes as i edited the crap out of this thing. you go, bus guy. the world needs more unjudgemental people like you. 
> 
> apologies in advance for any feels, tears, and/or sudden desires to burst into song. the author does not claim responsibility for any of these symptoms, and if they progress, it is recommended that you see a fandom specialist.
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Four_

The instant the comms had cut to static in his ear, Gavroche knew he was in trouble.

Combeferre had let him through, and he  had used his precious time well, darting into Eponine’s cell, grabbing her wrist with no explanation whatsoever, and sprinting back out, all in a matter of under eight seconds. He dragged Eponine to the stairwell, trying to be quiet but figuring speed would work more in his favor than stealth at this point.

Now, they were running like the demons  of hell were after them, skipping several steps at a time and almost tripping on multiple occasions. Once, Eponine had been lithe and fit, one of the best for missions requiring physical strength and agility, but after six months in a cell with little exercise and severe malnutrition, she was weak and out of shape. A few times, Gavroche found that he was supporting her weight as they made their way up the stark grey staircase.

He vaguely wondered how much further up they had to go, but if he looked up, he would lose his balance and send both himself and his sister to the ground, so he kept his eyes straight ahead. How much more time did he have? He knew Combeferre had had a clock going so they would know when whatever security measures they had overcome would be restored, at which point they needed to be  far, far away from the government base and whatever guards they would send after them, for surely there was someone after them right now. You didn’t just bust a prisoner out of their cell and get away with it, no matter how advanced your hacking skills were, or how many cameras you shut off, or how many gov-bots you distracted. So rather than sneaking around like a shadow on the wall, his method was now to run and hope that he and Eponine had gotten enough of a head start that they could make it back to base before the gov-bots caught up.

Although, without Combeferre’s timekeeping, for all Gavroche knew, they could have ten more minutes, or two.

Gavroche noticed that there was a bannister running along the side of the staircase, and had been for at least half his trip, which meant that he was about halfway up. This was good. Very good. Once they reached the top of the stairs, he knew the way back to the exit- and assuming Les Amis were still providing him with transportation out of here, they would hopefully be waiting.

If not, it was unlikely Eponine would make it all the way back on foot. She was gasping and choking for air, and every few steps she stumbled. Although she tried to hide it, she was obviously in pain, favoring her right leg and clutching her side with each sharp inhale.

_Just a bit longer, Ponine,_ he thought. _Surely you can make it. Please. You_ have _to make it._  

Suddenly, below them, a door banged open. Harsh accented voices screamed things, and the sound of boots pounding against the stairs became audible.

Gavroche swore and poured on the speed, now completely dragging his big sister behind him. She hadn’t asked any questions yet, in fact, hadn’t said a word, only followed her brother, letting him drag her around. He supposed it was the sheer exhaustion setting in, but he still felt a bit resentful that she wasn’t at least _trying_ to be helpful.

“Let’s go,” he murmured. “I ain’t come this far to lose now.”

The pounding feet grew louder and more numerous. There must have been a hundred after them, easy, which meant that Feuilly no longer had access to his usual pyromaniacal tricks.

Which probably meant that _none_ of the Amis could reach him and Eponine.

They were on their own.

He tried not to shudder at that grave thought. If Les Amis really weren’t waiting outside for them… But no. He couldn’t think like that. He had to be optimistic.

Not that he had ever had much to be enthusiastic about in all his ten years of life. Having some of the world’s most well-known and nefarious drug lords for parents was not exactly a popularity booster, at least in the normal world. In the crime world, the dark world of gangs and drugs and murderers, the name Thenardier was famous and infamous all at once. Everyone who was anyone in the crime industry knew Thenardier. Which meant they knew or at least knew _of_ Gavroche and his four siblings.

He’d had a rough childhood, with his mother kicking him out of the house early when he had accidentally jeopardized a key drug exchange. Then his father had called him back a year later because neither he nor any of his goons was small enough to get into the crawlspace of a potential target’s home. Gavroche had reluctantly agreed, and a shaky alliance between father and son had formed, with Gavroche doing as he pleased, going where he wished, and Thenardier occasionally needing his speed or smallness or quick wit and amazing acting ability and calling him back again.

But Gavroche had no emotional attachment to his parents, and when his father was imprisoned, his mother vanished, and their gang,  Patron Minette,  scattered, he felt no remorse, no sadness, no desire to visit his father and make amends. No, all he felt was a cool sense of justice.

Growing up on the streets hadn’t been a walk in the park, but from the horror stories his sister Azelma had told him of her home life, he was sure he much preferred it over his bat-shit crazy family. He had wandered from place to place, sleeping wherever he could find shelter, eating whatever he could find or scrounge or steal.

And then the end of the civilized government happened, and suddenly life as he knew it was over. Patron Minette secretly became a group again, although Thenardier was still behind bars. Revolutionary groups, including the one he knew his older sister was a part of, formed underground, figuratively and sometimes literally. People were dying more and  more each day, both from gang violence and the gov-bots, terrifying humanoid machines that never tired and didn’t tolerate crap from anyone. Buildings blew  up and were burned left and right. Places of worship were shut down, and thousands of people were relocated to new, government-approved homes, leaving behind their old city and their old lives. Now, all that was left were a few hundred civilians, here for show, and the gangs. The criminals. The ruthless, violent murderers and drug lords and all sorts of other kinds of cheery people.

This was the life Gavroche had grown up in, the life of constantly checking over his shoulder. The life of knowing how to identify different weapons and drugs, and knowing when something was a fake. The life of it not having been a day without staring down the barrel of at least three separate guns. The life of a criminal, surrounded by criminals.

And Gavroche wasn’t complaining. These were his people; his turf.

But optimism wasn’t his strong suit. He accepted life for what it was, but didn’t try to delude himself with thoughts that it was better than it was.

Now, running for his life up metal stairs in a government base with hundreds of gov-bots after him and his half-asleep sister practically on his back, he wished he had learned earlier to be enthusiastic. He could have  used some false courage right about now.

Up ahead, he could see the red light of the EXIT sign over the stairwell door. _They were almost there. They were going to make it._ He grinned despite himself, and found new strength in his legs to plow up the final flight of stairs to the door.

He slammed the door open with much more force than probably necessary and practically flung Eponine through with him, aware of the loud crashing noise the metal door made as it hit the wall behind  it. Oh, well. They already knew he was in here. Now it was just a matter of getting out. Preferably with a getaway vehicle waiting outside for them. Unlikely, but he had no other choice. He couldn’t possibly drag his sister all the way back to the headquarters.

The hallway was deserted, which might have been suspicious if Gavroche didn’t know the immense capabilities of Les Amis. Knowing what they could do, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Feuilly had set off a full fireworks display at the other end of the base. Gavroche wouldn’t put it past him to do exactly that. And now the exit path was gloriously, beautifully empty.

“Let’s go,” he murmured to Eponine, who gave no sign she heard or understood him, instead, doubling over to catch her breath in great gasps of air.

“Ponine, come _on_ ,” he said, and yanked her along after him. She could have her asthmatic breakdown later. Preferably once they were back at Les Amis’ headquarters, out of harm’s way.

The exit was _so close_ , maybe ten yards away, and Gavroche wasn’t fully in control of the _whoop_ that escaped his  lips. _They were going to make it._ They were as good as home free, assuming there was a car out there waiting for them. And the Amis hadn’t failed them yet, no matter how compromising of a situation this appeared to be.

As he passed through the doors that swung open like magic just for him, he couldn’t help the  wide grin on his face. He was safe now. Just past the gates, then to the-

_-the car waiting for them._ A shiny black car was parked by the  main  entrance of the gate, not looking completely out of place amongst the sleek black government  vehicles roaming around, but still, very obviously not belonging there.

Gavroche scanned his potential routes out the gate and to the car without being spotted. In the base, the gov-bots may have been preoccupied with Feuilly’s explosions, but  out here, they were as uniform and on the spot as ever. At least six sat in various watchtowers among the fence, and several more paced back and forth across the pathway, very efficiently killing any possible hopes that Gavroche may have  harbored that he could just run across the yard to the car. He’d be shot within seconds because, unlike Les Amis, the government showed no restraint with shooting children.

He sighed and surveyed any other possible escape routes but, seeing none, groaned inwardly. They had come so far, only to be stopped at the front door, literally the last leg of their journey.

It was only then that he heard the approaching stomps coming from inside the base and suddenly remembered the hundreds of gov-bots after them. Funny how that minor detail had managed to slip his mind. But now he was trapped between gov-bots and… more gov-bots.

Leaning on his shoulder, Eponine made a noise somewhere between a groan and a gasp, and Gavroche remembered something else, too- something he had told Courfeyrac to try and convince him to let him go on the mission.

_And besides, what’s it to you if I don’t make it? You don’t know me. You don’t care about me. I’m an expendable resource._

_That’s right_ , he thought, his resolve now as steely as his glare. _I_ am _expendable. Eponine is not. Meaning that if she gets out alive and I don’t, the mission would still be a successful one._

After all, there was nothing for him out there. His mother had run away with Azelma and his father was behind bars. His two brothers had been thrust into the foster care system as the world ended and were now probably living with civilian families, in civil neighborhoods, far from the ghettoes and slums of what this city used to be. The only person Gavroche cared about in this world was in danger, and he’d face the pits of hell before he let anything happen to his one remaining family member who cared about him.

So if he died… at least he would go down fighting.

Because Thenardiers didn’t die quietly.

He would scream as he died. Or yell. Or sing. Or a combination of all three.

He leaned in close to his sister and whispered in her ear.

“Listen to me. Ponine, are you listening to me?”

A grunt was all he got in response.

_Good enough._ “Listen up. I’m going to run out there. They’re going to see me, okay? Are you still listening? They’ll probably shoot me, Ponine. But I need you to do something. I’m going to lead them around the other side of this yard, and you’re going to run. See that car, with the woman behind the wheel in the sunglasses?”

Another grunt, hopefully in the affirmative.

“You’re going to run for your life all the way over there, and get in the car. You know her. She’s a friend. Les Amis?” He for the life of him couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but Eponine seemed to know. She nodded, and the tiniest of sparks appeared in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

“You’re going to get in the car, and she’s going to drive you back to HQ. You’ll be- you’ll be  safe there. Okay?”

Eponine gave no response. She looked up at him with clouded brown eyes and Gavroche barely resisted a shudder, wondering what kind of hell she’d been  through in that cell. A once coherent, brilliant, funny girl had been reduced to a _husk_ of her normal state, and he couldn’t blame her. Six months in government captivity couldn’t have been good for her, mentally or physically. Her skinny arms and legs were covered in bruises, and dried blood was crusted on her skin and clothes. Her hair was chopped off at uneven angles and her eyes were unfocused and lifeless. She smelled terrible from months of no showering, but more than that, she reeked of metal and the sharp scent of blood . Her stomach had become completely concave, like they had starved her. Knowing them, they had.

But when they got back to HQ – when _she_ got back to HQ, he reminded himself- they could fix her. Combeferre and Joly were both pre-med, or they had been before the end of the world. The HQ had food and showers and beds that actually had blankets on them. Headquarters was safe. She would be safe soon.

Gavroche smiled despite the predicament they were in. She would be _safe_ soon. For the first time in half a year.

“Alright, Ponine, just to recap,” he said, standing up straight so that she was forced to, as well. “I’m going to run out there. They’re going to chase me around the side of the yard, out of sight. And then you sprint to the woman in the car.”

For the first time, something in Eponine’s eyes cleared. “I’m not leaving you,” she said, in a voice gravelly with disuse.

“You’ve got to. There’s no other way.”

“There could be.”  Her eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. “Give me your ear thing.”

“My what?” Gavroche was so startled that she was talking, let alone forming coherent sentences, that he reacted too slowly.

“Your thing. In your… ear.”

“My comms?”

“Yeah, that. Give it here.”

Gavroche fished the comms unit out of his ear and passed it over. She fiddled with it, obviously trying to make it work, and Gavroche was about to tell her not to get her hopes up, that they were standing right outside the biggest signal blocker in this half of the world, when it crackled to life.

Eponine stuck it in her ear. “Musichetta. You there?”

A frenzied stream of babbling came through the comms, no doubt excited  Les Amis confirming  her existence and health, but Eponine cut them off with, “Can you pull the car around to the front gate? We’re going to need to move, _fast,_ ” and it was then that Gavroche spotted the first gov-bot, hurtling towards the exit from inside. _The exit that they were standing in front of_.

“Eponine, move, _now,_ ” Gavroche snapped, and  shoved her with his shoulder. The two of them tumbled into the dead grass as the front door blew off its hinges by at least six different gov-bot’s gun blasts.

Any gov-bots whose attention had been elsewhere was on them now, and Gavroche swore as he realized how little time they had before one of them had a bullet in their backs. He tugged Eponine up and didn’t think.

He just _ran,_ across a hostile yard with at least twenty different guns trained on him and the owners completely unconcerned about shooting two minors.

Someone  shouted “ _Stop!_ ” and a gun fired. The front gate began to close, and Gavroche poured on the speed, darting through the gap in the gate and hightailing it to the sleek black car, pulling Eponine behind him.

Eponine was soon safe in the car, and Gavroche was just getting ready to climb in himself when he felt molten lava between his shoulder blades, and cried out in alarm and _pain, oh god, pain_ , because it felt like someone had stabbed him with a blade straight from a blazing fire.

He should have known his good luck wouldn’t last.

He’d come all this way, and in the final stretch, had gotten shot. Just his luck, he supposed.

The bullet lodged in his back burned to the point of unbearableness, and Gavroche dropped to his knees. The gov-bots were pouring out of the gate, guns trained on the  car, and Gavroche acted on impulse and slammed the car door shut.

But right before he did, his eyes met his sisters. Blue eyes met brown. And the fear and shock in Eponine’s eyes was almost, _almost_ enough to make him jump in the car.

But, no, he had to stay behind. For Eponine. And for the rest of Les Amis.

After all, he was expendable.

The car tore out of the lot at an  indecent speed, and Gavroche could only assume that Musichetta thought that he was safely in the back. Hopefully she and Eponine made it far, far away, out of harm’s reach, before they realized he wasn’t there.

A gun barrel was forced into the back of his head, and his face slammed into the dusty road. All he could think was, _at least I saved Ponine._

Then the butt of the gun slammed into the back of his head, and he knew no more.

***

Musichetta was not usually a whiner.

She took what she could get in the lottery of life, and didn’t gripe and groan about it. Complaining didn’t get you anywhere. It didn’t magically fix things. So there was no point.

But even she had to admit that lately, their missions had all _stunk_.

First was Jehan’s- the fateful mission to retrieve the flash drive _that the government had initially stolen from them._ He had been captured when the gov-bots weren’t delayed as long as they should have been with Joly’s malfunctioning elevator trick.

Then Bahorel, who had been shot –and killed, according to Courfeyrac, as Feuilly had gone blind with rage and was unable to recall exact details of that particular incident,- on the mission sent to get the flash drive  that Jehan presumably dropped in the woods on the way back. They hadn’t even found the stupid thing, _and_ they had learned that the  government  had, in fact, killed Jehan.

Almost as soon as Courfeyrac and Feuilly had gotten back from _that_ disastrous quest, a sassy ten-year-old had dropped out of the sky and demanded _he_ go into that stupid base, too- to rescue his sister, who, up until this point, none of the Amis had known was alive _or_ related to him.

Eponine and Gavroche were now safe in the backseat, so at least _that_ hadn’t gone wrong, although the car had the disadvantage of having a darkened window separating the back seats and the driver’s, so she could only make out vague outlines of the backseat. Musichetta hadn’t actually looked back yet, her eyes glued to the road, but she could hear Eponine crying and Gavroche… well, she  couldn’t hear him, but he had always been a quieter child, hadn’t he?

The black car she  had “borrowed” from an ally in the city was modified for missions such as these, with extra levels of speed and endurance, bullet-proof glass, and extreme resistance to the elements.

It was quite a nice car on the inside, too, with voice-activated controls and autopilot steering for when your hands were otherwise detained, and  darkened windows. Musichetta had taken a liking to the car at once. She had named the voice control James, because _come on_ , what kind of person would she be if she didn’t take the opportunity to take advantage of a spy-car with a British voice control?

For fun while she waited outside the base for the Thenardier siblings, she had taken to calling the voiceover “Bond, James Bond,” and cracking up when he very politely answered that he “didn’t have anything to bond together, thank you very much, Music Cheddar.”

Well.. these were bleak times. She had to find her fun somewhere.

Eponine’s breath was coming out in sharp gasps now from the backseat, and Musichetta wondered vaguely if she should stop and make sure her friend was alright, but Gavroche would take care of it. He was quite the resourceful one.

She thought back to when Eponine’s voice had sounded over the comms unit. Pure elation had filled her mind as she had heard the one voice she thought she would never hear again, and clearly she still had a fraction of her old personality, because there were no formalities, no ‘hi, how’ve you been the past six months?’ Eponine got straight to business, ordering Musichetta to bring the car around front so she and her brother could make their escape.

“How are you doing back there?” she called.

There was no sound from where she thought Gavroche to be, but Eponine made a noise that could _technically_ be interpreted as agreement, or possibly aftershock from the events at the base, or even carsickness. Musichetta stepped on the gas pedal. The sooner they got back to the base, the better.

James cheerfully reported how fast they were going, and, just because he was that ~~cheeky~~ helpful, he also mentioned the eight traffic violations she was currently breaking with her reckless driving. Fed up with the suddenly annoying British voice, Musichetta stabbed his mute button and floored the pedal.

She was expecting something else to go wrong (of course she was), so she nearly sobbed with relief when they pulled up to the old café that their headquarters were located under unharmed. Bossuet was seated on the bench outside, discreetly on guard since  Gavroche had destroyed their alarm system, but his gun was concealed and he was dressed normally, so he wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

Musichetta jumped out of the car. “Bossuet, darling, you would not _believe_ what we’ve been through.”

Bossuet leapt off of the bench, and his jeans snagged on one of the metal nails. As he ripped free, a tear appeared in the leg of his pants. Musichetta stifled a laugh. Bossuet was notorious for his bad luck. As he fell forward with the momentum of his pants ripping, he stuttered out a “helloMusichetta!”

Musichetta laughed and helped him to his feet, then kissed his cheek. “I need your help, darling. Will you get Eponine and Gavroche inside?”

“You’ve got them! Of course you do. You’re _Musichetta._ Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’ve got to lead these gov-bots off of our trail… and I have to return the car to its rightful owner, of course,” she said, smiling, as she opened the back door to let the Thenardiers out.

Only instead of Thenardier _s,_ plural, there was one teenage girl sitting in the backseat, crying softly.

“Where’d he go?” Musichetta demanded.

“Gavroche was _never here!_ ” Eponine wailed, and suddenly her sobbing on the ride back made sense. “He _didn’t get in the car,_ the idiot. He stayed behind to distract the gov-bots so that we could- could-”

“Escape,” Musichetta murmured. Her mind raced with a hundred different emotions- shock, at opening the  door and _not_ finding  all of her passengers safe and sound; guilt, at leaving Gavroche behind without even thinking to check if he was in  the back; dread, at what the government was surely going to do to the boy now that they had him.

How could she  have been so _stupid?_ She hadn’t even _thought_ to check the backseat, to ensure that _both_ Gavroche and Eponine were there. As soon as the back door had slammed shut –and she realized now that Gavroche had probably assumed that she would do exactly what she did- she ripped out of the lot without a second thought. And Eponine’s crying had probably been for Musichetta to stop, to go back and get the only family Eponine cared for.

Musichetta suddenly felt such a strong wave of anger that she smacked the side of the car, but when Eponine flinched and drew back into the backseat, she immediately felt terrible, and tried to tone her rage down. Eponine had every right in the world to be angry. She’d been imprisoned for half a year, most likely tortured, and reduced to a hollow shell of her past self that was malnourished and weak and jumped at loud noises. Musichetta hadn’t suffered like Eponine had.

“ _We abandoned him!_ ” Eponine cried. “He came to _save me_ and I freaking _abandoned him_ like the shitty sister I am.”

“You had no choice,” Musichetta said gently, mind still numb with shock. “He wouldn’t have made it so that you had a choice. He was very brave.”

“And stupid. We have to go back and get him.”

_That_ sounded like a terrible idea. “Absolutely not. We just got you out of there, and barely.”

“I _have_ to go get him! He’s my _brother!_ ”

“We’ll discuss this inside,” Musichetta snapped, “once I’ve returned. But I really have to go.”

Bossuet shifted nervously on his feet, having watched the brief argument with increasing uncomfortableness. . “So… should I tell the others or…?”

“Take Eponine inside and get her cleaned up.” Musichetta nibbled on her thumbnail. “I would say send her straight to bed, but I assume the others will have questions for her.” She turned to the girl in the backseat. “Are you up for another interrogation session?”

Eponine shrugged. “I just want to see everyone again, together, as a group.”

Neither Musichetta nor Bossuet mentioned Jehan and Bahorel. She would find out soon enough, and neither wanted to be the bearer of bad news after she’d been through so much bad news already.

Musichetta climbed back into the car and fired up James, needing someone to talk to so she didn’t go mad during her decoy drive to lead the gov-bots astray, and Bossuet led Eponine gently by the arm out of the car and into the café.

“Our headquarters are under this café,” he said. “The entrance is inside.”

“Odd little place, isn’t it?” asked Eponine.

“No one ever comes here because, apparently, even before the world ended, this place _sucked_ ,” said Bossuet. “It’s perfect.”

Eponine laughed, but it was a hoarse, rough noise that sounded painful. “It sucked, huh? Sounds like we’d fit right in.”

“Yeah.” They reached the kitchen, and Bossuet motioned for her to stop.

“This is my favorite part,” he said, and he sounded for all the world like an excited schoolboy.

He opened the fridge, but instead of shelves of chilled food items, it was empty- no shelves, no food, and so tall and wide that Bossuet could have stood comfortably inside. On the ground of the fridge was a metal trapdoor, but instead of a handle and  lock, there were three different alarm systems which looked busted.

Bossuet rapped on the trapdoor three times, paused, knocked again, then slapped the metal surface. Then, he pried open the door, briefly explaining  to Eponine about the damage her punk of a brother had caused to their security system as the two of them climbed down the ladder that had deployed just for them.

Once the ladder had retracted back into the ceiling, Eponine had already been hugged by every member of her team. There were tears and smiles all around, and so much chatter that her ears buzzed. When the din finally died down, the questions began.

“I need a shower first,” she said, and Joly showed her to the bathrooms, where she stripped off her disgusting six-month-old, dried blood-covered articles of clothing and took the longest shower she could ever remember taking in her life.

When she stepped out, she saw that someone had laid a fresh outfit out for her and taken her old clothes. She secretly hoped that they burned the old things. She certainly wouldn’t mind doing the honors herself.

The clothes were Musichetta’s, curvy, tall, Musichetta’s, so they would have been gigantic on Normal Eponine. But this was Starved, Skinny, Weak Eponine, so the shirt hung off her like a dress, the pants had to be adjusted around the waist, and although they were shorts, they hung past her knees.

She combed the tangles out of her hair and for the first time, noticed her uneven hair lengths. She wondered when they had done _that_ to her, and decided to ask Musichetta to help her trim it evenly sometime soon.

She made her way back out into the main living area, where Les Amis were seated on couches. There were people missing, but Eponine dismissed the thought and sat down beside Combeferre on a faded red couch.

“So,” she said hoarsely, and cleared her throat. “I suppose it’s story time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we all aspire to be as badass as gavroche, the author shamelessly sneaks in a hp reference, and government-trained robots do *not* belong in musicals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! 
> 
> so i actually have no idea how long the finished product of this is going to be, i was like "oh i'll be considerate and only do like ten chapters" and now i'm like "this is looking more like 30 lol" but i don't know anymore so yeah
> 
> sorry this chapter's so short, i'm supposed to be researching japan so i'm going to do that because i really need an a in this class and it's due in like three days 
> 
> don't put off your homework, kids. it doesn't end in your favor
> 
> this was written at like three this morning and i am so sorry
> 
> here goes... hope you enjoy!
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Five_

Gavroche hated the dark.

An interesting statement, considering his upbringing in the streets (if you can call it an “upbringing” when he had done all the bringing up himself). His childhood had been one of dark places and cramped corners, of blending in with the shadows on the wall and hiding in the blackest, tiniest little places.

So it was odd to admit that he hated the dark. But he did. He despised it, not knowing where things were, feeling the disorientation of complete pitch black. In the dark, you couldn’t see where your enemy would strike next. In the dark, you couldn’t even see your enemy.

His cell was as dark as anything he’d ever experienced before, with no windows and the only light coming from all the way down at the hall, where the gov-bot’s post was equipped with a lantern. The only upside to his cell was that it wasn’t like Eponine’s- completely closed off, rather, it had a barred door so that he could see out into the aisle of cells, but he couldn’t, say, stick his head out. The slits were too small.

For hours, the only noise was the guard striding up and down the aisle, barking things at prisoners and banging on the bars of the cells and overall making a huge racket. The guard seemed to have a personal vendetta against the prisoner in the cell across from Gavroche’s, meaning that there was a lot of noise on this end of the hall. Gavroche couldn’t hear much, and if he could, he would have moved so that he could see, but currently, he was curled in a ball, unable to move from the pulsating, pounding pain in his back. A meal had been slid into his cell, but he had ignored it, too much in pain to move from his position, slumped against the wall.

They hadn’t taken the bullet out, which made Gavroche think that they weren’t planning on keeping him alive much longer. It was a discouraging thought, but he couldn’t dwell on anything except the excruciating pain. He wanted to sleep, knew he needed it after his days on the run with little sleep and then the long and emotionally draining day he’d just had, but the chunk of metal wedged between his shoulder blades wasn’t getting any less painful, and so his eyes stayed –involuntarily- open for hours.

It must have been at least two full days later that the gov-bot came marching down to the end of the hall to chew out the guy in the cell across from Gavroche’s, again, this time for _singing._ Seriously. The guy had been belting out lyrics to a variety of different songs, switching randomly, sometimes in the middle of verses.  It might have been annoying had Gavroche wanted peace and quiet, but honestly, he was just glad of the reminder that he wasn’t completely alone.

He had also given up on sleep hours ago, so the noise was a welcome distraction from the pain pulsating through his entire body. He wasn’t sure what kind of damage had been inflicted on him from the bullet, but he was fairly certain that his spine was now wacked _way_ off balance, because the few attempts he’d made at standing had ended with him back on the ground, cursing and hissing in pain.

The guard was now screaming at the one who had been singing, and Gavroche’s already pounding head was starting to throb. Finally, he couldn’t  take any more.

“Shut _up!”_ he cried.

The gov-bot turned toward his cell, and the implications of what Gavroche had just done hit him like another bullet. He had just told a _government official_ to _shut up._ People had been _killed_ for less than that.

The rifle slammed into the bars of Gavroche’s cell, and from his position, sitting with his back to the wall, he flinched.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” sneered the gov-bot, sounding quite the opposite. “Was I _too loud_ for you, your highness?”

Gavroche thought about backing out, about apologizing and saving his hide from punishment.

But then his pride flared up, and he thought about getting in the guard’s face and finally voicing his opinions that he had kept bottled up for so long for fear of being overheard  and carted off to… well, to this place. At this point, he really had nothing to lose.

“Yes, as a matter o’ fact,  y’ _were_ ,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I’m _tryin’_ t’ sleep ‘ere.”

The guard came right up to the  door of his cell, and  Gavroche had to try hard not  to shudder at the expressionless face looming  over him, the blank eyes that never blinked, the hard set mouth that barely moved when the gov-bot spoke.

He thought for sure the gov-bot was going to come in here and beat him, or maybe drag him off to some torture chamber for his sass, but instead, the guard stuck his rifle through the bars, aiming it right at Gavroche’s head, and he would be a filthy liar if he said that didn’t scare the _shit_ out of him. No matter how brave someone claimed to be, there were very few people that could stare down the barrel of a gun without an ounce of fear. Gavroche was pretty good at hiding it, keeping his expression neutral, but inside, his mind was racing. He was going to die, right  here, slumped against the filthy stone wall of a government jail cell.

“Say that again,” the  gov-bot hissed. “I _dare_ you, punk. You think you’re so funny, mouthing off to an authority figure? We’ll see how funny you are when this _bullet_ finds your  brain.”

Gavroche opened his mouth to snap something back –something that most likely would have gotten his brains blown out- when the prisoner across from him, the one that had started this whole thing  by singing, started up again, as loudly and obnoxiously as possible.

The gov-bot removed his rifle from between the bars of Gavroche’s cell and whirled around. “ _Shuddup!”_

But he didn’t shut up, and Gavroche, still trying to calm his beating heart, thought that he was going to get himself killed. Then another person, in another cell down the aisle, joined in. Then another, the one right next to Gavroche. Pretty soon, the entire hall was singing the same upbeat, outdated song, and Gavroche couldn’t help but join in, although most of his contribution was humming, since the song was before his time.

The gov-bot seemed to grow more and more furious with each singer, until he was screaming to be heard while simultaneously smashing his gun against Gavroche’s cell.

“ _I said shut up!_ ” he roared, and the singers quieted. “The next person to begin  that… that atrocious noise will be  shot!”

“Can’t shoot alluv us at once,” Gavroche called, and the first singer hooted with laughter.

The gov-bot seemed to consider this, then marched off down the hall. “I am going to make a call,” he announced loudly, “and _someone_ is going to go through hell for this… incident.”

A door swung shut, echoing in the hall with a sense of impending doom.

The prisoner across from Gavroche was still laughing. “ _Dude,”_ he choked, gasping for breath. “That was awesome. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever seen old Metal Man so mad.”

Gavroche managed a smile. It _had_ been pretty funny. “What does ‘e have ‘gainst a good song?”

There was a pause, and then the other prisoner spoke. “You want to know a secret?”

Someone from down the hall spoke up. “We can literally all hear you.”

“No, no, I mean all of you. You know why they hate singing so much?”

A general murmur of assent ran up and down the row of cells, and then the guy spoke.

“It’s because when they crawled out of the pits of hell, sorry, _when they were produced in  the factory_ , I mean, they weren’t programmed with music in their system. To them, music sounds like a loud of screeching and squealing. They can’t understand it, therefore we could be singing about anything, and they wouldn’t be able  to hear it. We could be singing rebel secrets back and forth. _That’s_ why it’s so frustrating to them.”

Gavroche couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that popped from his mouth. “Are y’ serious?”

“No, he died in the fifth book.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Inside joke. No, man, I’m serious. It’s hilarious.”

“How did y’ figure this out?”

“My best friend is this crazy nerd who looks up how things work _for fun_. He’s insane. But he found out that they weren’t programmed with a music-recognizing software, and we tested it out a few months ago.”

“Your friend sounds amazin’.” Gavroche thought of Les Amis and felt a pang of sadness wash through him. He’d known them for less than an hour, but  he felt incredibly close to them anyways. And now he was never going to see friendly Courfeyrac, brilliant Combeferre, clumsy Bossuet, again. And Eponine. Brave  Eponine. He would never see her again.

“Well, he’s great until he’s criticizing your singing abilities.” The guy suddenly pitched his voice up three  octaves and  began  speaking in falsetto. “‘I swear to God, you’re like a dying cat. A dying cat with dreads and an earring and terrible fashion sense.’”

“Does yo’ friend actually sound like a muppet?”

“Nah, that’s just my impression of him.” From the tone of his voice, Gavroche can tell that the guy is grinning, lost in nostalgic memories of better times.

“Thank you,” said Gavroche, realizing he had yet to say so up until now.

“For what?”

“For distractin’ that guard. He was about t’ shoot me in the head. You saved my ass.”

“Language. Seriously, if you were in my friend group, you would have  already been chewed out by like, three different people. We used to have a swear jar and everything.”

“I’m trying to say thank you, you ungrateful--” Gavroche had been leaning against the  wall, eyes closed, but when the other guy said those words, he snapped to attention, something tugging at his memory. “Sounds like th’ type of people I met  a few days ‘go.”

“What did you say your name was, kid?”

“How d’ ya know I’m a kid?

“Dude, you’re either a kid or an adult with the highest voice I’ve ever heard.”

Gavroche pouted a bit at that, then sighed. “I’m Gavroche. Gavroche Thenardier.”

“Thenardier, ey? Then I suppose you’ve heard all the crap about _him_ this world has to offer. Say, maybe you’ve heard of my buddies and their revolutionary group. Reason I’m in here, you know.”

Another flare of memories resurfaced, and suddenly Gavroche knew who this person was, although he had never actually met him face-to-face.

“So what’s yo’ name, then?” he asked.

“Oh,” laughed the guy. “Forgot to introduce myself. Do it all the time, sorry. My name’s Bahorel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oops?
> 
> one of my specialties (and if i write any more fics on this site then you'll learn this) is to kill off characters and then be like "oh dey weren't ded lolz" bc i just really want them back in my story
> 
> *throws confetti* it's called ARTISTIC LISCENCE
> 
> also in my mind, bahorel gets in trouble for singing a weird mix of popular music and showtunes (he's secretly a huge nerd fight me on this) and then when they're all singing, it's like t-swift or something. idk.
> 
> again, sorry this is so short. my japan project is calling me. *sigh*
> 
> i'd like to thank starbucks for keeping me awake long enough to write this piece of crap, and the barista at said starbucks for putting up with my complex and miserable coffee order (thanks, allergies)
> 
> thanks to the lovely kevin, as always (less than three, bae)
> 
> *deep sigh* japan project, here i come
> 
> -byrd


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which feelings are stupid, courf is me in the mornings, and eponine is smarter than any of these nerds when it comes to feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so late (at night) that i'm posting this.... my japan project is being stubborn
> 
> disclaimer: i do not hate japan. i do not hate the residents, or the culture, or anything about it. the only thing i hate about japan is being forced to do a bloody project on it
> 
> much thanks to kevin, who encouraged *coughcoughforcedcough* me to eventually post this, no matter how bad i thought it was.
> 
> i realize the time jump was a bit wonky, but i mentioned a bit ago that a few days had passed while gav was in jail, so this is like two days after the beginning of the story
> 
> also idk where they live, or where this should be taking place. maybe france, maybe america, whichever you prefer, so i cheated on the street names a tiny bit. 
> 
> just pretend they're really french american streets, or really american french streets
> 
> *rips street sign out of the ground* ARTISTIC LISCENCE
> 
> torture is kind of implied towards the end here, so just be wary
> 
> sorry if this is terrible
> 
> kevin made me do it (less than three, bae)
> 
> (also, kevin: you get your ukelele soon. i promise.)
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Six_

“You’re back!”

Joly jumped off the worn blue couch and ran to hug his girlfriend, who had just stumbled off the ladder and was looking slightly dazed. She returned the hug, then turned and gave one to a waiting Bossuet as well, who had tripped on the leg of the coffee table to get over to her.

“How are you?” Bossuet asked.

“Fine,” Musichetta replied. “Tired, mostly. Spent the night, then had to run all the way back from the—from the place where I borrowed the car.”

“You ran _all the way_?” shrieked Joly, taking her face in his hands. “You could have died! Did you get plenty of water, keep hydrated? Did you stretch afterwards? How about your breathing? Is it in working order? _Do you have any abnormal muscle pains?”_

Musichetta laughed and kissed his forehead. “I told you, baby, I’m fine. Just winded, is all.”

“I’ll go get you some water,” Joly declared, and ran off to do just that.

Eponine greeted Musichetta with a hug, too. “Run into any problems?”

“Not one.”

“That’s… nice, I guess.”

“No, that’s extremely suspicious.” Musichetta turned to Combeferre, who was punching away at his keyboard, which he had been tinkering with nonstop until the screen turned back on. “The gov-bot activity in this area seems to have  declined considerably in  the past, like, two days.”

Two days. Forty eight hours. So much could happen in two days. Two days ago, Bahorel had still been alive. A little over two days ago, they had still thought that Jehan was alive. Two days ago, they had still thought Eponine to be  dead, and Gavroche hadn’t even entered the picture yet.

Two days ago, Gavroche hadn’t been in government captivity.

And two days ago, Eponine _had._

“Where is everyone else?” Musichetta asked. The common room was empty save for Combeferre, Musichetta and her boys, and Eponine.

“Sleeping, most likely. Or trying to, at any rate.” Eponine grabbed an orange out of the fruit bowl on the kitchen table and began to peel it. “We’ve all been through some tough things lately. We figured we might as well sleep in shifts so we don’t miss any news.”

Musichetta nodded. “Do you need me for anything, or can I sleep, too?”

“Wait, Chetta.” Combeferre turned his laptop around so that she could see it.

“That comment you made… you’re right. There was an  official government decree issued about a day ago, ordering all personnel to evacuate this and surrounding areas.”

“That’s good, right?” Joly had returned with the water, which he handed to Musichetta and she sipped gratefully.

“Possibly,” Combeferre murmured, although he didn’t sound optimistic. “It’s just the way they worded it. Not ‘relocate.’ Not ‘clear the area.’ ‘Evacuate.’ Like something is going to happen here, and they don’t want to risk the lives of their own troops.”

“Evacuation normally refers to, like, natural disasters, doesn’t it?” Eponine asked.

Combeferre nodded, looking thoughtful. “Or wars. Or diseases. They could mean any of those things.”

“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Eponine grumbled. “What now?”

“Now? We do our research. Find out what exactly the government is planning, and match them before they do it.”

“I’ll go get the others up,” Bossuet volunteered, and managed to stumble over the armchair on his way back to the rooms, then trip over Combeferre’s computer cord, causing the thing to go flying off the table.

Eponine thought he would get mad, but he simply picked it up, closed it, and relocated across the table to Enjolras’ hibernating computer. He plugged in a small green flash drive that Eponine knew held all his data and research. They were all prepared for the Many Misadventures of Bossuet, and ever since the incident with Joly’s end of the  year report for med school saved to his laptop, which  Bossuet then accidentally stepped on and broke, causing his boyfriend to have to rewrite the entire report three hours before it was due, everyone had resorted to using flash drives, usually stowed away in pockets r on keychains, for all their  school papers and important files.

Now, after the end of the civilized world, they used it for storing data and codes used for getting past government firewalls.

Oh, how the times had changed.

“I’ll go with him,” sighed Joly, and followed his  boyfriend into the back rooms that they had turned into bedrooms.

Musichetta and Eponine settled on either side of Combeferre and watched him work his magic, effortlessly bypassing security grids and typing in codes that gave him access to top-secret government files. Eponine didn’t know how he did it. The few times she had tried to help with the technological side of a mission, she had almost gotten Bahorel killed by hitting the wrong key and setting off the alarm system in an abandoned bank he had been trying to ~~rob~~ borrow from. After that, they had practically begged her to go back to fieldwork, which she was better at anyways. Running and avoiding gov-bots and shooting guns were more her forte. Codes and computers and such, she left to the smart ones.

Combeferre made it onto the government’s main security systems list within two minutes.

Eponine suspected witchcraft.

“So what did you find?” Musichetta asked, as he surveyed the screen thoughtfully.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “An order was issued to all government robotic units to evacuate…” He checked a map and pointed it out to the girls, hovering his mouse over the streets as he named them. “Main Street, Blvd de Mont, Rue de Flume, and this one. Our street. Blvd de Musain. They’re holding a widespread removal of gov-bots from the area, but  it doesn’t say why.” He clicked something else, and the full advisory came onto the screen. Sure enough, it ordered all gov-bots out of the area.

“But _why?_ ” Musichetta sounded frustrated. “Don’t the gov-bots want to know why they’re being relocated, too? Why wouldn’t the government tell them?”

“Well, they are robots,” put in Combeferre. “They don’t have minds of their own, so they can’t demand things of the government because they really don’t  care either way. They follow orders. They don’t question the motives behind those orders.”

Eponine groaned. “So much for that, then. For all we know, they could be planning to nuke this entire place.”

There was silence after that grim comment, broken only by the _click clack_ of Combeferre’s keyboard.

It was another five minutes of quiet before Courfeyrac stumbled into the common room, hair disheveled and eyes red. He yawned hugely and tried to flop down onto the couch, but missed and went tumbling to the floor.

Eponine wondered if Combeferre knew how he was looking at Courfeyrac in that moment, pure adoration and fondness in his eyes as Courfeyrac flailed on the ground, then apparently decided it wasn’t worth it to get up, because he just fell back asleep on the ground.

Or at least, Eponine thought he was asleep, until Combeferre called, “Tired, Courf?”

“I want to shoot my face,” Courfeyrac mumbled, his voice muffled by the floor.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because early mornings shouldn’t exist and I hate my life.”

“To be fair,” Combeferre said, returning his attention –with difficulty, Eponine  noted,- to his laptop. “It is almost one in the afternoon.”

“Screw you and all you stand for,” Courfeyrac informed the rug.

Combeferre had to hide his smile behind his computer screen, like he didn’t want anyone to notice.

Eponine noticed.

The rest of the Amis slowly started to trickle into the common room. Enjolras and Feuilly, ever the prepared ones, looked well-rested and ready for a day of overthrowing the government. Courfeyrac looked dead to the world, still face down on the floor.

“So what’s going on?” Enjolras slid into the chair across from Combeferre, and, upon seeing that Combeferre had his laptop, without missing a beat, slid Combeferre’s own laptop to his work area and worked on trying to boot it up. Eponine could tell this was a frequent happening.

Combeferre told the room at large what had been happening, the notice issued to all the gov-bots, and then Eponine’s dark speculation that the word “evacuation” typically meant disease or war or natural disasters.

“Or bombs,” Courfeyrac mumbled from the floor. Up until this point, Eponine hadn’t thought he had been a part of the conversation, but apparently he’s been paying attention. “They could bomb us all. Ka-boom.”

“That’s what I said.” Eponine picked at a fingernail, which she vaguely realized she needed to get trimmed, and filed the reminder away for later. “They could be planning to bomb this area.”

“But why?” Enjolras asked. Having been unsuccessful with rebooting Combeferre’s laptop,  he had given it to Feuilly, the tech expert, and in turn had stolen Feuilly’s own laptop, which he was now typing away on. Lord, they _were_ codependent. Eponine wondered what any of them would do without the other, and with a pang, realized how guarded Feuilly’s expression was. He had been thinking the same thing, and had probably come to the same conclusion she had—he had been just as dependent on Bahorel, his best friend and boxing partner, and without him, Feuilly may as well have been missing his left arm.

“Why does the government do _anything?”_ Musichetta asked in response to Enjolras’ question. “We don’t know. The system’s been taken over by a bunch of corrupt loons.”

“Amen to that,” Joly muttered, appearing in the doorway with Bossuet right behind him.

“What took you so long?” Eponine asked. “Been having fun back there?”

Joly’s face paled and then reddened so quickly, Eponine couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped her.

“No, no, it’s not  like that,” he protested. “Boss slammed into the doorframe, and I had to patch up his  head.”

“Kissed a couple times,” Bossuet muttered.

“ _Not helping, Boss!_ ” Joly hissed, face flaming red. “But I swear- I swear that’s all.”

“Classic Bossuet,” grinned Musichetta. She moved to the couch and patted the spaces on either side of her. “Come here, boys, I’m cold.”

Both looked quite happy to be out of the spotlight, and tumbled onto the couch next to Musichetta, where they soon formed a MusicholyBossuet cuddle pile in which it was impossible to tell who was where, exactly.

“But he’s right,” said Enjolras, trying to steer the conversation back on  track. “This government is corrupt and insane and needs to be stopped.”

“Are you planning on overthrowing the government, E?” asked Courfeyrac from the floor.

There was an uncertainty in Enjolras’ eyes. “Maybe not yet. But possibly, eventually.”

“So how do we figure out why this notice was… noticed?” either Joly or Bossuet asked from the cuddle pile.

“Excellent word selection, _maître des mots,_ ” Courfeyrac said, and it sounded like he was grinning into the rug.

“Shut up,” either Joly or Bossuet grumbled.

“We don’t have to figure out why it was issued,” said Feuilly in a low voice, and everyone’s attention turned towards him. “Since we’re obviously having problems finding it, it’s unlikely they made it public at all, even just to the gov-bots. So we don’t waste time trying to find something that isn’t there. We just prepare for whatever may happen.”

“And if they _do_ decide to nuke us?” Eponine asked. Ah, yes.  Always the ray of sunshine, she was.

“Then we move further underground.” Feuilly turned to Combeferre. “How far is far enough to be safe from a nuclear bomb?”

“Depends on how powerful it is,” Combeferre muttered. “And knowing the government, they’d use the most powerful thing they’ve got.”

“To bomb an empty block?” asked Musichetta.

“To eliminate any survivors,” corrected Feuilly.

“So we’d have to move even further underground,” summed up Enjolras. “Pack everything up and completely relocate.”

Courfeyrac groaned into the carpet. “Man, I _liked_ this place,” he whined. “And I liked our first place, too. Why are we always moving?”

“Would you rather be blown into endoplasmic dust?” asked Combeferre.

“Ferre-bear, only you can say something ridiculously nerdy like ‘endoplasmic dust’ and manage to make it sound nice,” Courfeyrac mused.

“Shut up, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre’s ears were bright pink.

Eponine raised an eyebrow at the two of them. She _couldn’t_ have been the only one who noticed the… whatever-it-was between them. They had been skirting around each other awkwardly ever since she’d returned, possibly before that. Combeferre had had a crush on Courfeyrac for _years,_ everyone knew that, but the sunny, curly-haired boy had always been off-limits…

… _because of Jehan_. And now, as horrible as it was to think  about, Jehan was out of the picture. But Combeferre wasn’t bold enough to make a move, and Courfeyrac was still grieving his dead boyfriend, so they were skirting around each other now, and it was painful to watch.

Eponine felt like banging her head on the kitchen table. Why were her friends’ love lives so damn _complicated?_

She had liked the same boy for years, ever since she had met (and saved) him on one of her father’s heists when she was twelve. A freckly, cheerful boy who seemed to light up any room he walked into. Who was clumsy and awkward, yes, but in an adorable way. Whose affections towards Eponine were purely platonic, not because he was an  asshole, but because he was just that oblivious. Who—

Who wasn’t in the room, Eponine realized.

“Where’s Pontmercy?” she asked, and heads swiveled as they all looked for the forgotten member of their team.

“Prob’bly still sleepin,” sighed Courfeyrac. “Which I want to be doin’ right now…”

He trailed off into a snore, and as a group, Les Amis collectively rolled their eyes at him.

“I’ll go find him,” Feuilly volunteered, as the computer he had been working on finally turned back on. He passed it to Enjolras and walked back into the bedrooms in search of Marius.

Eponine had accepted long ago that Marius would probably never love her back. She wasn’t bitter about it. She didn’t wallow in self-pity, crying _“Oh woe is me!”_ and she had stopped secretly pining for him about a year ago, when she had come a fraction of an inch from death and had realized there were more important things to be worried about in life, like making it through the end of the world.

As Combeferre snuck another look at Courfeyrac’s sleeping form over his laptop, Eponine thought, _some people need to do the same._

***

_He watched them, or listened to them, rather, through the bars of his own cell, the big man who didn’t take shit from anyone and the equally tough little boy. He listened as the boy almost got shot, and he listened as the entire hallway of prisoners had joined in what must have been the most blatant act of rebellion ever performed in government captivity._

_He might have joined in the singing, had he believed it would make any difference._

_Had he not been scared of the gun being pointed at him next._

_For almost as soon as the gov-bot had stalked off to make the call and the prisoners around him silently celebrated their bold move, the guard had come marching back in. He had unlocked the little boy’s cell door, and he had dragged him away._

_It wasn’t some big secret where they were going._

_He had often gone himself, when he had just arrived here, when the government believed he could be forced to tell rebel secrets._

_He  had laughed bitterly. As if any rebels in their right mind  would entrust any secrets to him._

_But the government wasn’t persuaded, and it took three months of absolute hell and seventeen broken bones to convince them._

_Now, he just sat in his corner. Sometimes he ate. Sometimes he didn’t. But he liked to listen to the prisoners come and go, listen to the hopefulness in their voice, believe in the fiery bravery behind their words._

_And then they were marched off to the interrogation room, too._

_Some came back, but most didn’t._

_He didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of them. Let their dreams be crushed just like his._

_But he did care._

_Oh, he did. Because he had once had a vision of a better life._

_And that thought was enough for him to send a silent prayer upward, for this little boy and what he stood for._

_And how much he reminded him of himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra hugs for you if you know who the POV is at the end
> 
> sorry gavroche <3 love you boo
> 
> also is the courferre painfully obvious? i'm trying to make it painfully obvious to everyone except courf and ferre
> 
> don't forget to tell me what you thought... likes, dislikes, comments, concerns, tears over barricade boys, anything
> 
> muchas gracias to kevin, who kept me inspired today by reminding me of all the languages i spoke 
> 
> (that's a joke)
> 
> four years of languages, one french musical, and seven different duolingo accounts later, i'm still struggling with english (my. native. language.), and yet i'm learning ASL
> 
> we'll see how this works out
> 
> yeah
> 
> everyone get plenty of sleep
> 
> be sure to thank your coffee people for keeping this world awake and energized
> 
> baristas
> 
> they're called baristas
> 
> i knew that
> 
> -byrd


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which plans are made, nothing really happens, and two new characters are "introduced," though we havent met them face-to-face and probably won't until chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> five minutes till midnight. if i hurry, i can get this in still *technically* on time
> 
> thank you all so much for all your sweetness <3 i love my lovely readers
> 
> i'd like to thank (who else but) kevin, for the inspiring text at like 11 tonight that just read "Finish."
> 
> you're a true inspiration to us all, darling
> 
> whoo this might suck as it was written at 11 at night
> 
> warning for torture and all that fun stuff
> 
> here goes
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Seven_

The headquarters of Les Amis looked very deserted and very sad without all the accommodations they had added over the months to make it seem like home.

The walls were bare of Feuilly’s drawing and Musichetta’s sketches and everyone else’s various posters. The couch looked lonely without anyone slouched down on it. The kitchen had been raided by various members wishing to salvage a certain article of food without the others getting to it first, and whatever hadn’t been taken was added to Enjolras’ backpack, otherwise known as the central food bag. The beds had been stripped of their sheets and while they never had any formal unit for storing clothes, (instead preferring to live out of their suitcases and occasionally risk a run to the laundromat aboveground,) the floor of the dorm room looked empty without everyone’s clothing strewn about, hanging off of the beds or being trampled underfoot until the owner needed it again.

Joly  shouldered his duffel bag and sighed, surveying the bare dorm room sadly. It had only been their home for about five months; after the government had captured Eponine, they had eventually traced the comms signal back to their original base, and Les Amis had been forced to relocate.

Joly  hadn’t liked the first headquarters much.

It was really a civilian’s basement they had taken over when the owners of the house had either been killed or relocated, a day or so after the end of the world. It had been a dank and dark place, lacking both electricity and running water, and so they had had to be imaginative with the resources they had.

When the government found them out, the home had been set on fire and the entire neighborhood bombed. Les Amis might have been in trouble, had Feuilly not had very helpful contacts on the inside who warned them days before it happened, so the Amis were already packed up and had found a new headquarters by the time the government acted.

For days after that bombing, people had tried to speculate what the government had been doing, bombing an entire neighborhood that (people assumed) was empty. Les Amis had relocated in secret, underground in an old bomb shelter from the last war, in a crappy café in a deserted part of town. No one noticed. No one bothered them because as far as anyone knew, Les Amis were all dead.

Then they started causing problems, stealing government files, sneaking into places they shouldn’t have, messing with important leader’s speeches and sabotaging gov-bots left and right. Civilians noticed, so of course the government figured it out soon enough, and then they were back on Les Amis’ trail.

The closest they had come to finding the underground revolutionary group was capturing three members, and even that hadn’t stopped the Amis for long. They seemed to be invincible.

 _But even Achilles had his weakness,_ Joly thought, dragging his bag into the common room with everyone else’s. _We can’t keep evading them  for long. They’ve just got to find our weak spot. Our heel. Then they’ll be able to defeat us at last._

Joly shook his head. His breathing  was becoming more rapid and his pulse was increasing at the mere thought of what the government could do to him, to his friends, if they were caught.

 _Negativity is bad for you,_ he told himself. _Breathe._

Bossuet appeared at his side and linked hands with him. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Joly mumbled through gritted teeth, but Bossuet obviously wasn’t buying it. He kissed Joly’s head and murmured into his hair, “What’s wrong, Jollllly?”

“It’s just…” Joly watched the bustle of the common room before he spoke, all the members of Les Amis hurrying around, gathering their things into one backpack each, choosing which things to leave behind and which things they couldn’t live without. Eponine was already waiting by the ladder, backpack on, braiding her hair. Musichetta was checking for something in her own backpack, and Feuilly was typing something on his phone. Enjolras and Combeferre were talking as the latter checked something off of a list, and Marius was scurrying around, finding his possessions in seemingly random places around the base and stuffing them in his bag.

Throughout the chaos, there was still a sense of familiarity, a feeling of codependency among the Amis. They had lived together for a year, known each other for even longer, and they were closer than mere friends could ever be. Joly loved it.

“Us,” he admitted. “Our group. What happens now?”

Bossuet frowned. “Now, we move  to another safehouse. Enj thought he found one--”

“No, not that. I mean what happens with the government? The rest of the  people in this country that have been hurt by this whole thing. When does this end? Who will win, and if it isn’t us, what happens?” He laughed, but it was a fragile, watery noise. “Hell, what happens if we _do_ win?”

“Hey,” Bossuet said, and it was so gentle, so sweet, that Joly turned his head to look his boyfriend in the eyes. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay. We’re doing just fine.”

“Tell that to Jehan.” Joly knew it wasn’t fair to shoot down Bossuet when he was trying to be encouraging, but he was just so frustrated that he couldn’t help it. “Tell that to Jehan and Bahorel and Gavroche, the _ten year old_ we sent on a suicide mission. Tell it to Eponine, who’s been imprisoned half a year and got her own freedom at the cost of her brother’s. We _aren’t_ doing anything right, that’s my point. We can’t do _anything_ right lately.”

“Jols…” Bossuet looked at a loss for words. “We’re trying. We’ve messed up, yeah, and we’ll probably mess up again, because we aren’t perfect. I alone demonstrate this every, like, ten seconds.”

Joly managed a smile, but it looked forced. “But what if we lose? What if we don’t? What’s going to happen to us?”

Bossuet tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach as Joly said “us” and not “me.” He squeezed Joly’s hand tighter. “I don’t know,” he said. “And I don’t pretend to know, either.”

Then he leaned down so that he could whisper, and Joly shivered slightly at the feeling of Bossuet’s lips against his ear.

“But I _do_ know that whatever happens, I want you right by my side for every second. Okay?”

“Alright,” Joly said with a smile, a real one this time, his mood significantly lifted.

“Could you two _get_ any sweeter?” Without either of them noticing, their girlfriend had snuck up behind them. Musichetta pecked both of them on the cheek and smiled. “You two ready?”

“Yes,” Bossuet said, as Joly mumbled, “No.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine, babe. We’ve got you.” She kissed him for real this time, on the lips, and though they’d done it countless times before, Joly still felt as though his insides had melted.

Musichetta kissed Bossuet, too, and then they went to the ladder, where Les Amis had started to congregate. At the last second, Courfeyrac came sprinting out of the bedroom, backpack only half-on, unzipped, and overflowing with things he probably didn’t need. His shirt was buttoned wrong and his hair was wild, and on one foot he sported a red converse sneaker. On the other, the shoe was a yellow Doc Marten, patterned with daisies.

He was also, for some reason, carrying a ukulele.

“Courf,” Enjolras sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you really need all that stuff?”

“Yes,” replied Courfeyrac, bending down to tie his red shoe, as though there was no  question, _of course I need this ukulele Enjolras what a stupid question_.

“Alright, fine. You know what? Fine. _Fine.”_ Enjolras turned to Combeferre, who quickly attempted to readjust his facial expression into something more serious and less fond and adoring. “Are we ready to go?”

“We’re ready when you are, chief,” came the response.

Enjolras sighed. “This is a democracy,” he corrected, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. “Alright, for those of you who don’t know, who, for instance, may have been _asleep_ during our last meeting,” a meaningful glance toward Courfeyrac, “we’re heading out into the country. Not too far, just a few miles or so, so that we can still keep an eye on things going on in the city, and… the base.”

The base, where Bahorel had died and Jehan had died and Eponine had been imprisoned and Gavroche was imprisoned now, assuming they hadn’t killed him yet. Of course they would want to keep an eye on it. Far too many evil things had happened in that place for them to just forget about it, completely turn their backs and move on.

“Where _exactly_ are we going?” asked Feuilly. “I mean, is there a specific building in mind, or are we just wandering until we find a place to stay?”

“The general consensus of the people in  the room is that a four-to-five-star hotel would be greatly appreciated,” put in Courfeyrac, and Eponine snorted loudly.

“ _People in the room_ being you, I’m assuming.”

“Why of course, Ponine,” he said, with a dazzling grin.

Eponine’s face suddenly became more guarded, and she turned away with a stony expression. Joly wondered what the hell _that_ had  been about, but he didn’t dare call Eponine out on a weakness in front of the whole group. He liked his  face just the way it was, thank you very much.

“We have someone willing to give up their home, actually,” said Enjolras.

“And you’ve performed-” Bossuet began, but Courfeyrac cut him off.

“Background checks, DNA analysis, history, family, the whole shebang. We do know how to do _some_ things right.”

Combeferre looked impressed. “I didn’t think you paid attention when we were going over those things,” he admitted.

“Only when you talk, Ferre-bear,” Courfeyrac crooned, and across the room, Enjolras made a face at the both of them.

Joly had to fight back a smile. If _Enjolras_ was starting to pick up on Combeferre and Courfeyrac and their not-so-subtle flirting, it was time for them to get their shit together, because Enjolras wouldn’t know love if it grabbed Courfeyrac’s ukulele and strummed out a love ballad for him.

“Her name is Mlle. Fauchelevant, and her background has been extensively researched, because normal people don’t just offer up their homes for rebel bases.” Enjolras shrugged. “She really and truly is just a genuinely sweet person looking to help out a good cause.”

“Imagine that,” sighed Marius, looking utterly awestruck. “There aren’t many people like that anymore.”

“OoOh, is Marius in lo-ove?” sang Courfeyrac, and Combeferre laughed.

Hypocrites, thought Joly. The whole lot of them are hypocrites.

“We’re walking,” Enjolras continued, “and it shouldn’t take us too long, but should we run into any problems--”

“Oh, don’t even _say_ that,” grumbled Bossuet.

“—We have a vehicle if absolutely need be,” he finished. “But because that’s a last resort-type thing, we’re walking the few miles.”

“Everyone have everything?” Combeferre asked, and everyone nodded or answered in the affirmative.

“Excellent. Let’s go.”

“Goodbye base,” Bossuet said as he climbed the ladder after Musichetta. “You’ve been an awfully good base, and we’ll miss you ever so much.”

“Especially if this Mlle. Fauchelevant’s house has _roaches_ ,” added Courfeyrac from the bottom of the ladder.

Joly let out a sound somewhere between a shriek and  a yelp. “Don’t _even_ joke about things like that!”

But he silently added his own little goodbye to their home for the past six months, too, and prayed to the good Lord in heaven that Mlle. Fauchelevant was not a slob.

***

 Gavroche was in pain.

So much _pain._

His chest and ribs ached from continuous beatings, his left arm was crooked and hanging oddly, and his right foot would no longer bear his weight. He was seeing double, and blood kept dripping into his eyes from a gash on his forehead that refused to close.

The only upside, he thought bitterly, was that they removed the bullet.

With rusty tweezers and no anesthesia, yes, but at least the chunk of metal was no longer in his back.

And he could still stand, he had learned when they had come to take him away. The bullet had not caused lasting damage to his spine, and he was fully capable of walking to the interrogation room for questioning. “Questioning” being, “ _you tell us what we  want to hear and if you step out of line once, say one wrong word, then we will beat the ever-living shit out of you_.” But at least he had been able to walk there.

Walking back, however, had been a different story. He had been beaten so fiercely in that room that he was no longer able to walk. All his joints protested. His right foot was most likely broken, and every step, movement, and breath sent jolts of red-hot pain through his whole body.

So they had carried him back and tossed him back into his cell, and he must have blacked out because the next thing he knew, his muscles were stiff with fatigue and there was a stone-cold meal on the floor of his dusty, filthy, damp cell.

Great. Now all he had to worry about was infection, from the diseased cell conditions.

But hey, at least he was alive, right?

“Kid?” Bahorel’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Yeah?” Oh, holy voice crack of all voice cracks. He cleared his dry throat and tried again. “Yeah?”

“You alright?”

And it was such a stupid question that Gavroche didn’t even grace it with an answer.

“No, you’re not. Never mind. Idiotic question, I know.”

This was what Gavroche liked about Bahorel- sometimes it took him a second, but  he was pretty smart when he actually thought about things.

“What…” Bahorel seemed almost hesitant, which didn’t match his character at all. “What did they ask you?”

“About L- about my revolutionary group.” Gavroche suddenly didn’t want Bahorel to know who he was or why he was here. Let him figure it out for himself.

“Anything else?”

“They asked me if I’d ever come ‘cross a man… I can’t ‘member ‘is name, though. Ain’t never heard it befo’.”

“Jean Valjean?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Why? Had you heard of him?”

“Nah, they ask everyone the same things here. The head of the gov-bots is, like, _obsessed_ with finding this guy. Who knows why. But he seems to be quite the rebel. They’ve been looking for him for, hang on.” Bahorel raised his voice. “How long did you say it was, Itey?”

“‘Bout fifteen years,” came the reply from a cell two down from Gavroche, and Bahorel nodded. “Point is, they’ve been looking for this guy, Jean Valjean, for a long damn time.”

“Valjean…” Gavroche tested the name out on his tongue, let it roll past his teeth. “Don’t sound familiar, so he mus’ not be a criminal. Wonder why they’s so obsessed wit’ ‘im?”

The question hung in the air for a while with no answer.

Then the prisoner who had just spoken –Itey, apparently,-- sighed. “Must’ve been one helluva bad thing to do if they’ve been huntin’ him fo’ so long. Usually, they’s just gives up.”

More silence greeted that statement.

Gavroche rolled onto his side, ignoring the excruciating pain in his limbs and ribs and chest and  throat and head. Sleep was a hopeless venture. There was no way in _hell_ he’d be able to sleep with all that hurt, all over, everywhere.

But he closed his eyes anyways, and didn’t open them again for hours.

***

_He heard them discussing the man called Jean Valjean._

_He listened to Itey, who sounded quite knowledgeable about the whole subject, and wished he could add some input to the conversation, as well._

_Even if he knew anything, there was no way to voice it. Two mangled, ripped up strings in his throat that had once produced sound and song and words were enough evidence of that._

_But he still wished he could talk sometimes, often to correct people, sometimes to scorn them, most often to argue with them._

_But the government had made sure of one thing, and that was that this bird would never again spill their secrets, never again be able to pass on rebel information, never again sing the song of revolution._

_He once wished he could overthrow the government?_

_He didn’t wish it anymore. He now understood the flaws in that plan, the obviousness that it would never work_

_Now he couldn’t even voice that obviousness out loud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry gav
> 
> sorry unnamed POV at the end
> 
> sorry others whose time for pain will come later
> 
> let's hear it for the power couple j/b/m (ot3 amiright)
> 
> don't worry, kevin, the ukulele makes a bigger appearance later.
> 
> i need sleep
> 
> be sure to tell me what you think!
> 
> much love
> 
> i need to use the sleep
> 
> the bed
> 
> i need to sleep on the bed
> 
> good night
> 
> -byrd


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we (briefly) meet cosette and we learn a thing or two about bahorel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's really freakign late and i'm tired
> 
> but heyy here's the eighth chapter
> 
> much thanks to kevin, who helped me plot (plan) out this torture device (chapter)
> 
> the ukulele will make a reappearance, bae, but idk when yet
> 
> much thanks to all my sweet readers who have commented and left kudos
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> byrd

_Chapter Eight_

Bahorel was bored out of his mind.

He had been in this godforsaken place less than five days, and already he was losing his mind. There was just nothing to _do._ Back at the headquarters of Les Amis, it hadn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, but at least he had never been deprived of anything to do. There were always people to talk to, a skinny ginger to annoy as he attempted to get work done, games to play, missions to go on.

Here, his only companion was Itey, a prisoner who’d been here since the beginning of the end of the world who had a gravelly voice, although he was only twenty-three, and anger issues that had landed him in this hellhole in the first place.

Then the sassy little kid had landed in the cell across from him, and there had been a brief moment of ‘ _what horrible crime do you have to commit to get locked up before puberty?’_ before the kid had introduced himself as Thenardier’s son.

Of _course_ he was in here. Bahorel had only run into Thenardier once, but it had been enough to plant a permanently horrid mental image in Bahorel’s mind. Thenardier was an absolute tyrant to his own gang, screaming at them and threatening to shoot them if they didn’t get the job done. He probably raised his children on rocks and steroids.

Bahorel had been singing. Don’t ask why; some part of his brain decided that now would be an _opportune_ time to begin belting some tunes. For the first few verses, some still-rational part of his mind had wondered _what the hell are you doing_ , but he soon tuned it out in favor of switching songs. This went on for about seven different switches before the gov-bot came striding down the aisle to Bahorel’s cell.

As he waited for the guard to arrive to chew him out, Bahorel remembered what Feuilly had told him about the gov-bots being programmed without musical identifiers, and suddenly the whole situation was a hundred times funnier. And what was even  funnier was the emotionless gov-bot trying to intimidate him with mere words.

Bahorel wasn’t frightened easily. He wasn’t _stupid,_ and before the end of the government, knew that when someone brought knives into the bar fight it was time to go, and guns were absolute last-resort things to use at rallies and protests. But there was very little that actually scared him. And this dead-faced hunk of metal was not one of them.

But then, of _course_ the little boy had to intervene by shouting “Shut _up_!”

And suddenly Bahorel was very afraid- but not for himself. For the cocky little kid that had just put his safety on the line by interrupting.

The gov-bot and the child’s argument escalated more and more until the gov-bot was literally pointing a gun at Gavroche through the bars of  his cell, and Bahorel decided he would rather _not_ be responsible for a minor’s death today. So he began singing again. Loudly. And very off-key.

And suddenly it was Bahorel whose life was on the line.

Until Itey joined in. Then the guy with the cell next to Itey’s who Bahorel thought might have been named Jon. Then another prisoner, and then another, until the entire hallway was singing along, including Gavroche, who was doing a sort of hum.

Bahorel grinned, and continued to grin as the gov-bot lost his temper and stormed out.

He wasn’t smiling when he came back, flanked by two other guards, and dragged Gavroche off to where Bahorel assumed was the interrogation room.

He hadn’t actually been there yet- the government had decided to shoot him in the chest and knock him unconscious, then drag him here. When he had come to, he had learned that it was only a tranquilizer dart that he had been shot with, and it was easy and painless enough to pull out. But they hadn’t taken him out of his cell yet except to use the bathroom twice a day, which he was eternally grateful for.

Still, it felt like the calm before the storm. All of his fellow prisoners had gone in there at some point or another, some since he himself had gotten there. Some came back, battered and bruised but still standing. Some had to be carried back and tossed into their cells.

Some didn’t come back at all. Their cells remained empty until a new prisoner was dragged in, which could be minutes or half a day later.

But Gavroche had come back. Of course he had. He was a fighter.

Bahorel was expecting his feeble attempt at conversation with the busted up kid to die out, but to his surprise, it went on, and Bahorel recalled a fact that he checked with Itey, an old-timer- the government was apparently looking for a man named Valjean, and no one knew why. Gavroche had claimed he wasn’t in the criminal industry, and if anyone should know, it was him, but Bahorel still thought Valjean must have done _something_ wrong to have them after him, and for so long.

 Gavroche didn’t talk any more after that, and from the heavy breathing, Bahorel figured he must have gone to sleep. How he managed that with the hundreds of new injuries dotting his body, Bahorel could only guess.

Bahorel was too wired to sleep, so he leaned against the filthy stone wall and rested, listening to the shuffle of prisoners in their cells and the _click-click-click_ of the gov-bot’s boots on the metal floor.

It was a few hours in more or less silence, at which point Bahorel was starting to go slightly insane, that Gavroche finally stirred.

“Hey dude,” Bahorel whispered.

In the dim  light from the guard station’s lantern, he could see Gavroche struggling to sit up, wincing in pain as he shifted uncomfortably. Bahorel was beginning to think the kid hadn’t heard him, when—

“Yeah?”

“How’re you doing?”

“Crappy. How ‘bout you?”

“Eh, I’ve been better. Have  a nice nap?”

“Not really,” Gavroche admitted. “Couldn’ settle down long enough t’ try t’ sleep. I’m worried ‘bout my sister.”

“You’ve got a sister?”

“Two, an’ two brothers, too, but this sister’s th’ only one that loves me.”

Those were blunt words, sharp and to the point, but Bahorel guessed that the Thenardiers didn’t do a lot of sugar-coating their words. Either they liked you, or they didn’t.

“Why’re you worried about her?” he asked.

“She’s part o’ this rev’lutionary group, an; they don’ always make th’ smartest choices,” Gavroche explained. “She knows I got cap’ured, an’ I’m scared she’ll try t’ come in ‘ere after me.”

“Sisterly love,” Bahorel snorted. “It must be terrible.”

“Yeah?” Gavroche sounded pissed, which hadn’t been Bahorel’s intent, but maybe it would be good for the kid to let off some steam so that he didn’t direct it at a gov-bot later and get shot. “An’ jus’ what have _you_ gone through tha’ makes yo’ life so damn hard?”

“Oh, now, let’s see.” Bahorel probably shouldn’t have risen to the challenge. He should have let it go.

But Bahorel had never been good at backing down from confrontation.

“How about the friends I left behind, probably thinking I was dead, when they dragged my sorry ass back here? How about the entire team that I left one member short? How about the signal my comms unit was giving off? If the bloody government was smart enough, they would have traced the signal back to my team’s hideout. What then? I’m responsible for the deaths of my teammates, my family. How about my best friend in the world, who, last I saw him, was screaming my name, certain I was dead? How about that I’ve been hopelessly in love with him since the seventh grade, but I’ve never  had the guts to say anything about it for fear of the person I look up to most in this world rejecting me? How about the _opportunity_ I left behind, the tiny chance that we could get our shit together and make this work? How about that?” Bahorel’s voice broke on the final word, and he wiped furiously at tears that Gavroche probably couldn’t even see.

He had just poured his feelings out to an almost total stranger, which had been reckless, and stupid, and surely he would regret it later- giving his heart and soul to a _Thenardier,_ of all people.

Gavroche was silent for a very long time, so long that it was becoming almost unnerving. Then he opened his mouth and said one very short sentence.

“Feuilly misses you too, y’ know.”

Bahorel’s vision tunneled, and he found for a moment that he couldn’t breathe. Just to confirm he’d heard correctly, he squeaked out, “ _What?_ ”

“Y’ heard me.” Gavroche’s voice was gravelly and sounded about twice his age. “Yo’ skinny ginger friend misses you, too. Alluv the Amis do. They think y’re dead.”

“How do you--”

“Y’ wanna know why I’m here? I was on a mission, sent by them Amis, t’ get m’ sister outta here. Things di’n’t work ‘ccordin’ to plan, an’ now I’m stuck in ‘ere. Eponine’s safe, though, an’ that’s all that matters.”

“Eponine is your… wait. _What?_ ”

Gavroche smirked. It was the closest thing to a smile to grace his face in hours. “Y’ migh’ wanna get comfy, big guy. This’ll take a while.”

***

Mlle. Fauchelevant’s doorbell made a pleasant chiming noise as Enjolras pressed it, and the entire group, crowded onto the porch of the big white home, shifted nervously. They were in plain sight of anyone taking the country road; an easy catch for anyone looking for money, seeing as they had a bounty over their heads.

Thankfully, the dusty, winding road seemed to be quite deserted, and there wasn’t another house for a mile or so in either direction.

“Well, they certainly don’t have to worry about annoying neighbors,” said Joly, and Bossuet smiled, but he was the only one. The others seemed too tense and nervous to laugh at anything.

There was the sound of footsteps from the inside of the house, and the door swung open right onto Marius, who was closest, and as a result, he was the unlucky sap that got taken out by the doorknob.

He fell, clutching his stomach, and the tiny little girl who had opened the offending door in the first place let out a small gasp.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cried, and knelt to help him up.

Even Bossuet could see the sparks fly as the two’s hands met. Bright blue eyes met startled green ones, and Marius seemed to forget what oxygen was. There was a long pause in which the two groups, the one waiting on the porch and the one having romantic revelations, simply stood there.

Then Courfeyrac coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like, “ _We reallY MUSt be getting inside now ahem,”_ and the girl leaped backwards.

“Oh, right,” she said, her eyes still on Marius’, and she seemed to force herself to look away. “My name is Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevant. And I’m guessing you’re Les Amis de l’ABC?”

***

Marius was in love.

Perhaps it was a bit cliché to fall for the girl so fast, but he couldn’t help himself. Cosette was an angel, with the beauty of a Disney princess and the heart of a saint, and her hands were soft. Her blond hair was dip-dyed bright blue at the ends, and her eyes sparkled like blue crystals. She was wearing a white blouse and flowery skirt with blue and yellow flowers that brought out her eyes, and Marius thought he had never seen anyone rock a skirt as well as Cosette did.

Then again, Cosette could probably rock a trash bag.

She showed Les Amis into her home, pointing out various rooms as they passed them. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and formal living room (Marius honestly didn’t know the difference, nor did he care, not when the girl giving the tour was so much more interesting than any of the rooms she was showing them), were all downstairs, as well as the master bedroom, which was her father’s, and they were instructed to never go into.

The second floor was dedicated to Cosette’s room and a guest room, which would be given to one of the Amis. The rest of them got  to divvy up the four rooms on the third floor, except for Feuilly, who claimed the attic.

After showing them all of the upstairs rooms, Cosette led them down to the basement, where a dance studio was set up. She admitted that she did ballet, or she had before the end of the world.

Marius had never been so enraptured with anyone in his whole life.

Then she revealed the secret door behind the third mirror from the left, which led down stone steps into a bunker-type room stocked with food and other provisions, and Marius found himself falling even more in love with her. Beautiful, athletic, _and_ prepared to house illegal revolutionaries in her home.

She really had the whole package, Marius thought, as Cosette continued the tour.

***

_They were talking about a revolutionary group, he could hear them._

_Both the huge man and the little boy belonged to the same group, called the Friends, and he found himself leaning forward in his cell to listen better._

_The boy’s sister, Eponine, sounded familiar, until he realized she had been his old torture room partner, months ago. They had been interrogated at the same time._

_He remembered how strong she had been throughout the entire thing, claiming she didn’t know anything when those sly brown eyes clearly held so much, remaining calm through the unimaginable hell they had put her through._

_If only he had been that brave._

_He had passed out halfway through from the pain. It was easier that way._

_But look where easy had gotten him. And, if the little boy was to be trusted, look at where her bravery had taken her- all the  way home._

_He made eye contact with the prisoner across from him and played a short game of charades. The man nodded and asked the passing gov-bot for the time._

_Sighing heavily, the gov-bot informed them that it was ten till one._

_“One pm?” the prisoner confirmed._

_“One pm.”_

_He moved into a crouching position and popped his neck in anticipation._

_It was time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyy so if it sucked you can blame me 100%
> 
> it's late and i am tired as crap
> 
> also sorry we didnt get to see much of cosette... SHE WILL BE A BIGGER CHARACTER I SWEAR
> 
> for right now i just needed to introduce her through the eyes of (literal puppy) pontmercy
> 
> love u marius
> 
> (also bahorel/feuilly is hinted at as being unrequited, because O T P)
> 
> i need sleep
> 
> oh hey i'm turning in the stupid japan project tomorrow
> 
> wish me much luck and no f's
> 
> f's are bad
> 
> mucho baddo
> 
> (this is where two years of spanish has gotten me i am so sorry)
> 
> come cry with me: to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> ALSO HEY IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED: the 24,601st word of this fanfiction is "of." the sentence is something like "there had been a brief moment of...."
> 
> just in case anyone else is a secret huge nerd and likes that kind of thing
> 
> -byrd


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author tries to be creative in naming OCs (don't worry they're minor), feuilly has feelings, and we still don't know who the italicized POV is. also: explosions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never fear 
> 
> byrd is here 
> 
> so after getting approximately 0 hours of sleep last night, i was like "Oh im gonna go to bed early tonight"
> 
> lol
> 
> yeah that didnt happen
> 
> sorry, sleep schedule
> 
> so anyways, thanks so much for reading, and this is a big chapter, so let me know what you think!
> 
> less than three to the wonderful kevin, who put up with my random ramblings and then my insistence that said random ramblings were the "creative process"
> 
> love u boo
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Nine_

Bahorel  wondered what was going on, and why he had missed the memo.

A prisoner in the back had asked to go to the bathroom, which shouldn’t have been a big deal. Then the guy across from him, one who hadn’t spoken since Bahorel had arrived here, also signaled that he had to go. Seemingly innocent acts, but both prisoners looked anything but innocent as they were led  out.

Less than a minute after the door had closed on the second guy, an explosion rocked the building.

Bahorel  jumped, and he wasn’t the only one. Several prisoners in his hall had let out small gasps or cries. The gov-bot patrolling their hallway banged his rifle against the ground for order and demanded, “What the _hell_ was that?”

As if any of them had an answer. They sat there in stunned silence as a second explosion rocked their cells, and then a third.

Then silence.

 _Bombs?_ Bahorel  thought. _And are they rebel or government?_

_Are we being targeted?_

The gov-bot hesitated for a moment, apparently waiting for more blasts. When none came, he sprinted down the aisle to the door.

“Don’t anyone move!” he hollered as he ran. “I’m going to make a call. Don’t anyone _freaking_ move!”

As if they could, Bahorel  thought, what with being locked in their cells and all. No one spoke as the door slammed shut behind the gov-bot. Then, someone said, “So what the hell _was_ that?”

Silence, except for the nervous shuffling of bodies in cells.

The person persisted. “Does anyone know _anything?_ ” Their voice cracked on _anything_ , and with a start, Bahorel  realized that it was a girl.

Then he realized it wasn’t fair to assume it was all men here. Eponine had been trapped here for almost half a year.

(He could also hear Enjolras going on another social justice rant about feminism and how women had all the same rights as men, including that to get locked up if they did something worthy of it.)

“Does anyone know anything?” she repeated, and this time there was a general murmur of _no, not me,_ from the others.

“Are we being attacked by rebels?” Bahorel  asked. “Or is this a government test gone terribly wrong?”

“They don’t test their  bombs this close to the base,” Itey muttered. “We’re being attacked.”

Silence met this gloomy revelation, until the girl spoke up again. “So… are these rebels looking to hurt us or harm us?”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , are they targeting the base to destroy it, in which case we’ll be taken out as well, meaning they’re not looking to spare us, _or,_ they’re attacking the base for the sole purpose of jailbreaking some people.”

“They ain’t looking t’ ‘bliterate th’ base,” Gavroche said suddenly, and all attention turned to him.

“How do you know that, kid?” Itey asked.

“Keep callin’ me kid, and I’ll start callin’ _you_ oldie,” he snapped. “B’cause I know things. Lotsa things. Like, if y’ wanna take a place out wit’ bombs, y’ don’ only hit _one spot._ But if y’ tryin’  t’ bust some people out, y’ get people on th’ inside to figure out where exactly them prisoners is bein’ kept, which they did. Y’ target a place that ain’t where the prisoners is. Which they did. An’ y’ cause your fancy lil distraction t’ detain them gov-bots, then get the ‘ell in and out as fast as y’ poss’bly can.”

He cocked his head, listening to something, and they all listened too, realizing that, for the first time, there were the sound of commotion from out in the main hallway- people yelling and guns firing, and the sound of combat.

“Which, it sounds  t’ me, like they’s doin’ right now,” Gavroche finished, in almost a reverent voice.

“So now what d’ya propose we be doing now?” Itey asked, sounding peevish that he hadn’t thought of that himself.

“Now? Tha’s th’ easy part, idgit,” Gavroche replied with a smirk, settling his tiny frame against the stone wall and crossing his legs, the ultimate picture of rest and relaxation, which was quite impressive, considering the circumstances.

“Now we wait.”

***

_The hallway was absolute chaos._

_People were running left and right, gov-bots were shouting orders, and in some places, chunks of the walls or ceiling were coming down. The building didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger of collapsing, so he continued weaving his way through the crowds fighting and screaming and shoving and managed to force his way into a wing of cells full of terrified looking prisoners._

_His partner in crime, Riley, materialized at his side and hollered, “Let’s go! Move!”_

_He took a ring of keys from his belt and unhooked a key. Tossing him the ring, Riley began to unlock the cell doors, one by one, and once he found the correct key, he did, too. Soon, there was a hallway full of confused, dazed prisoners._

_“Find the exit!” Riley yelled. “Get out of here, now!”_

_They all scrambled for the exit, with him and Riley at the rear._

_The prisoners all made it to the exit._

_Or at least, he assumed they did._

_He didn’t watch after they sprinted past him. He and Riley made quick work of about three more wings of cells, letting all the prisoners go as fast as possible, pushing aside gov-bots and others, when suddenly, standing outside the fifth wing, he recalled that there had been_ four _bombs that they had initially set._

_He only had time to tug at Riley’s sleeve questioningly before the blast knocked him off his feet, and all he could think was_

That bomb was _not_ so close to that hallway before.

_Before the world went momentarily black._

_When he came to a few minutes later, blinking dust out of his eyes, the first thing he saw was Riley’s motionless body, lying a few feet away from him._

_Staggering to his feet, he nudged Riley, to no avail. The man’s eyes remained closed, his form still and cold._

_He didn’t know whether he was dead, or just unconscious._

_He didn’t want to find out._

_He sprinted into the wing that the bomb had just opened for him, shoving aside a gov-bot as he  went, and fumbled for the key to unlock the cell doors. There was no need. The blast had ripped several doors off their hinges and left several others mangled enough to simply go through without a problem._

_Prisoners pushed past him, frantically making their way to the exit, wherever that may be._

_But some hadn’t escaped the blast unscathed. Bodies littered the ground, which he tried to ignore as he navigated the destroyed metal cell doors. No matter how badass he pretended to be, the sight of bodies still made him ill._

_One of the bodies trapped under a metal beam was moving, and he was not going to stop to help, he was a stone-cold badass who was on a mission—_

Screw this, _he thought, and ran to help._

_The beam was heavy, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. When it was finally lifted from the boy (for he saw now that it was a boy), the boy choked and gasped for air,  rolling onto his back and looking into his rescuer’s eyes._

_“Thank… you…”_

_He could only nod in response. Without Riley to speak for him, he had no  voice._

_He tugged the boy up, noting with alarm how skinny he was, and pulled him back out of the destroyed wing of cells and into the main corridor, where all hell was still breaking loose._

_A woman came up to him, yelling something unintelligible. When he tried to signal to her that he didn’t know what she needed, she dropped to the ground, a gov-bot’s bullet in her back._

_He pulled the boy by the hand along after him, sprinting like holy hell for the exit as guns fired and people shouted all around  him._

_As he ran, he remembered the wing of cells he himself had been trapped in, and almost turned back to go and unlock his cellmates, but there was no time. He had helped this person, and as a result, he sacrificed the people in his own wing._

_This was war. Sacrifices had to be  made._

_Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel guilty as he looked back, and tried not to remember the little kid he was dooming to a painful death back there by not going back for him._

***

Feuilly surveyed his  new room and secretly thought that it could use a bit of  color.

The attic walls were cream colored, and the floor was carpeted with an old looking material the color of fog. There was a cot tucked into the windowsill, and several cardboard boxes shoved into one corner, but other than that, the attic was quite empty.

He dropped his backpack on the ground next to the windowsill and flopped onto the cot. Downstairs, he could hear the other Amis shuffling about, preparing their own rooms. He wasn’t positive, but  he was pretty sure Courfeyrac and Marius were sharing the room next to Cosette’s. Up on the third floor were Joly and Bossuet in one room, Musichetta and Eponine in another, and Enjolras and Combeferre taking up a third. The fourth room was empty, and no one said it aloud, but they all knew it was in case Gavroche made it back, eventually.

He sat for a bit longer, listening to Joly and Bossuet in the room directly underneath him as they arranged their things and bickered back and forth good-naturedly. Then there was a _thud_ that, if Feuilly was guessing correctly, was Bossuet’s head against some hard piece of furniture. Sure enough, the next sound from either of the two was Joly’s “oh, _Boss,_ hon,” and the frantic scramble he made for the first aid kit.

Feuilly smiled. Joly and Bossuet were the perfect pair that had the added benefit of being best friends _and_ sharing the same amazing girlfriend. If he and Bahorel  started a relationship, he expected it would be a rougher, sharper version of the power trio.

 _If he and Bahorel …_ where the hell had that come from? He had no interest in Bahorel . Not romantically, anyways. They were friends. And great boxing partners. And speaking of boxing, Bahorel  looked _great_ shirtless. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, Feuilly hadn’t ever been interested in his friend like that. Not romantically. He had absolutely no desire to be cute and domestic, or completely in-sync with each other’s thoughts. He had never wondered how exactly Bahorel  would kiss, if he would try to make it a contest like he did everything else, control or be controlled—

 _Oh, God._ Feuilly felt like hitting his head on the wall. _I’m  in love with my best mate._

Who was he fooling? Ever since that stupid seventh grade kiss behind the gym, when Bahorel  had been trying to determine whether or not he liked boys, Feuilly had fallen for him, _hard._ And when Bahorel  had proudly announced that he now knew he liked boys as opposed to girls, Feuilly couldn’t help but silently agree.

But none of that mattered. Feuilly’s best friend, crush, boxing partner, whatever, was _dead_. And death was irreversible. So Feuilly could be a damsel in distress and whine about his pathetic unrequited love, or he could suck it up like a man and get shit _done._

But Feuilly wasn’t a fool, either. As he listened to what had become a makeout session downstairs, he knew his feelings couldn’t, wouldn’t go away just like _that._

***

Eponine was screwed.

So very screwed.

A long  time ago, she had managed to convince herself that she and Marius would never be a thing. He didn’t like her back; it wasn’t even necessarily his fault, and she appreciated that he wasn’t an asshole about it.

Then a tiny little blue-haired bombshell had answered the door to their new safehouse, and Marius had immediately and obviously fallen for her, and all Eponine could think was,

_Shit. I know her._

Of course she knew Cosette. The Lark. The tiny little blonde girl who her parents fostered for a few years. The Thenardiers weren’t exactly the parental type, but fostering kids earned them a _lot_ of government money.

Then a rich man had come to carry the Lark off to her fairytale ending, and Eponine and her siblings had watched on hungrily as the weakest of them all got her heart’s desire, getting carried off by a man who would love her like a daughter and treat her like a queen.

Not to mention he was _rich._

And although Eponine had ruled Marius out as a romantic option long ago, it still stung that once again, Cosette was getting her dream while Eponine watched from the gutter.

 _Classic Lark,_ she thought bitterly, throwing her backpack onto her bed and flopping her body down beside it. _Living the Disney fairytale life._

***

Combeferre had been perusing the paper when something caught his eye.

It was always important for at least a few members in their group to keep informed on the going-ons of the world, and Combeferre usually accepted the responsibility when no one else would.

But when this particular headline popped out at him, he grabbed Courfeyrac’s hand without even thinking, which he pretended didn’t make his heart swoop dramatically, and shouted, “Enj! You _need_ to see this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra bonus points if you know who the unnamed POV is
> 
> sorry, riley. you were important while you lasted (almost a whole chapter... i'm v proud of myself for keeping an OC that long)
> 
> in which f/b will be the end of me, and when ponine is sad, everyone's sad
> 
> also cosette with blue hair. yay/nay
> 
> much love to all my readers <3
> 
> and to kevin, of course, my biggest supporter
> 
> i've realized that i end essentially all my author's notes with "i need sleep" and i do indeed know how cliche that is yes indeed i do but i really need sleep guys
> 
> *flips table* dO YOU KNOW WHAT I GO THROUGH FOR YOU PEOPLE
> 
> jk i love you all
> 
> dont forget to read and tell me what you think!
> 
> -byrd


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which discoveries are made, cosette is more badass than any of us, and the author has fun with more (not so) subtle references

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are- chapter ten
> 
> lots of important things happen in this chapter. i love this chapter
> 
> much gratitude to the amazing kevin. surprise surprise. love ya bae
> 
> this chapter could cause some issues. there is slight violence. 
> 
> i'm going to the beach tomorrow morning and will most likely have wifi there so expect updates
> 
> if not... just know i'm chillin in the sand, havin more fun than u :))
> 
> also- dear girl that sits behind me in a3 block, i think you may have caught on that i'm responding to fanfiction comments when i've finished my work. and yet you don't seem surprised. if you're on here and have been stalking my story, das cool. do you like it so far?
> 
> much thanks also to ShippingEverything, whose sweet comments make me cry and wonder what i did to deserve such amazing readers
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> byrd

_Chapter Ten_

“So what do we know about this?”

Enjolras paced back and forth with the newspaper in his hand. The rest of the Amis, spread out over three couches, had no answer

The bomb blast that had gone off in the government base was in all the papers and  newscasts, at least those that still printed, those that still broadcasted. It had been pinned down as a rebel attack, and the leaders of the government were promising to find and punish the perpetrators.

“I… don’t know anything,” Combeferre admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose and typing something out on his phone. “They’re blaming it on us, though.”

“Of course they’re blaming us,” Eponine grumbled. “Every single time a gun so much as misfired in that godforsaken place, they blamed it on Les Amis de l’ABC.”

“But if it _definitely_ wasn’t us…” Courfeyrac looked around, like one of them might secretly be a bomb technician.

“It most certainly was not us, Courf,” Combeferre said dryly.

“Then who was it?” finished Courfeyrac.

No one had an answer. The other gangs and revolutionary groups had remained so under the radar lately that they had forgotten they weren’t the only rebels in the world. There were other groups out there looking to overthrow the  government, or just cause some mischief, and Les Amis had forgotten they weren’t the only ones in the business.

Feuilly voiced that thought aloud. “You _do_ know we aren’t the only people allowed to mess with the government, right?”

“Yeah, but we kind of have dibs on it,” Courfeyrac whined.

“Courf, I don’t even know where to _begin_ with that statement,” Enjolras sighed.

“You can’t call _dibs_ on antagonizing an oppressive government, for one,” Combeferre muttered, but he was smiling behind his phone.

“I can do what I want, _Mum,_ ” Courfeyrac said, but he didn’t sound mad, and it was _ohsoverycute_ that Combeferre’s ears turned pink when he was embarrassed, he thought.

Joly seemed to internally debate about something, then must have reached a conclusion, because he turned to Eponine. “Could it have been Patron Minette?”

She  shook her head. “That was what I initially thought. But Patron Minette doesn’t have  anyone _in_ there that they would risk so much to get. Even if someone was in there, my father’s gang is not built on comradery. If you get your ass captured, you just pray you’re important enough for them to risk their lives to come and get you, but I can’t think of anyone they’d bomb the government for. So, no, it’s not Patron Minette.”

“Do we know of any other large and important enough gangs or groups to be  the masterminds behind this?” Enjolras asked, and Feuilly obediently opened his laptop.

“Have you considered the other option?”

Cosette Fauchelevant was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe.

Enjolras looked annoyed. “You aren’t a part of this meeting, mademoiselle.”

“Listen, _monsieur,_ ” Cosette hissed, and all four-foot-three of her looked as intimidating as any horrors the government could cook up. The word _monsieur_ had never sounded so much like an insult before. “I’m letting your band of rebels take over my father’s home, _while he is away no less_ , so who knows what kind of trouble I’ll be in when he returns. I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re at a loss for answers and thought I would input my _professional_ advice, seeing as my father has been involved in underground revolutionary groups since I was a girl and you’re, what, my age? I was _raised_ on these ideas, and I think I know why your pretty little base was blown up.” She paused for a breath. “So before you _mademoiselle_ me, I do have my own mind, and an opinion. Would you like to hear it?”

The entire room sat in shocked silence for a moment. Enjolras looked offended, and Eponine looked sulky, but Marius looked, if possible, even more in love with her, and everyone else looked varied levels of impressed.

Finally Courfeyrac said, “Oh, I _like_ her. She can outmatch _Enjolras_ in a debate.” He turned to Combeferre. “Can we keep her?”

Combeferre started to say something and then just smiled, and that was all it took. Eponine turned to the tiny little blue-haired girl and murmured, “Welcome to Les Amis, Cosette,” and Musichetta scooted over to make room for her on the couch.

Cosette seemed to fit into the  group as easily as if she’d always been a part of it. Her presence was calming and exciting all at once, and her bright hair and even brighter fashion sense gave even Courfeyrac a run for his money.

“So, Cosette,” said Combeferre, once she had settled onto the couch like she owned it (which, he supposed, she did). “What _is_ your expert opinion?”

She sat up straight.  “That it wasn’t a group, or a gang, or anything of the sort.”

Enjolras snorted, his pride still clearly wounded from Cosette’s verbal attack on him just a moment ago. “And who do you suggest it was? Civilians?”

“Possibly, but I don’t think so.” Cosette ran her delicate hand along the edge of her skirt and pondered it  for a second. “I think it was a group of solo people, who must have either had a friend locked up, or they just wanted to do some good for the revolution’s cause. They gathered their resources and managed to scrape together a few pilots and planes and bombed the base to get their friend out.”

Joly looked skeptical. “How would they have known exactly where to hit the base so that they didn’t injure anyone? How could they have gotten together enough solos that hadn’t been locked up yet to help them?”

Musichetta tilted her head. “Those are some pretty key questions.”

Cosette didn’t look ruffled in the slightest, which Combeferre admired greatly. Instead, she smiled. “Careful planning. Lots of time. They’d probably been planning this for months. And determination. They all probably had a common goal, and they worked to make it happen.”

“And they _succeeded,_ ” murmured Enjolras, who looked as though he were beginning to see Cosette’s point. “A couple of solos managed to take out an entire six wings of cells in a top-security government base. Hundreds of prisoners made it away. They did something that hasn’t been done before. This is… this is _huge._ ”

Cosette, bless her sweet soul, was too kind to say “I told you so.” Rather, she jumped off the couch and declared that she was going to make dinner. After ensuring that the meeting was officially over, Marius and Musichetta followed her, hoping to get some cooking tips (or, at least, Musichetta was after cooking tips. No one was fooled for an instant that Marius wanted _cooking_ lessons when the poor boy blew up or broke every kitchen appliance he came into contact with.)

Eponine muttered something about _going to unpack, call me when it’s dinnertime,_ and vanished up the stairs. Enjolras moved onto the same couch as Feuilly and showed him something on his laptop. Bossuet and Joly went to go clean up Bossuet’s arm, which, in his haste to move over for Cosette, he had cut on the side of the endtable.

Courfeyrac stretched out on his own couch like a long, lanky cat, shirt riding up a bit, and the small strip of skin that showed for less than two seconds was enough to have Combeferre hiding his face behind his phone again. He tried to control the flaming in his ears and pretended like he hadn’t just been checking out his best friend.

This crush was going to destroy him slowly, because Courfeyrac was a naturally tactile person. He loved hugs and chaste kisses on cheeks and draping his entire body into people’s laps. Not in a romantic way, not even in a hinting way; Courfeyrac just _really_ loved friendly affection.

And with Combeferre, he was terrified that Courf’s affections would never be anything _but_ friendly. Courfeyrac loved Jehan. Even with his boyfriend gone, Courfeyrac’s face still glowed. He still smiled, and his whole personality remained the same. He was still _very much in love_ , and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that regardless of Jehan’s circumstance, it was him.

Combeferre brought his phone up even further, as he could feel the blush spreading to his neck. What he wouldn’t give to have Courfeyrac looking that happy because of _him._ What he wouldn’t gladly give up for the chance of a relationship with this person, who he loved so much but could not act upon said love because he was _taken._ And _happy._

Feelings, Combeferre decided, were a distraction. And he couldn’t afford to have any distractions.

So he steeled his mind and lowered the phone screen, determined not to look at his friend again.

That resolution lasted approximately thirty seconds, at which point he glanced up to find Courf already watching him.

Courfeyrac smiled sweetly at him, and Combeferre could feel his insides slowly implode.

So maybe feelings weren’t completely useless.

***

_He couldn’t stop; he had to keep going._

_He was almost positive the gov-bots would come after them, after all, they wouldn’t just let hundreds of prisoners walk out. They would have to fight their way to freedom._

_So  he had to keep moving._

_But the boy stumbling along beside him that he was essentially supporting the entire weight of wasn’t getting any lighter, and the sun wasn’t getting any less hot, and they must have been walking for at least a few hours._

_He realized he had no idea where he was going- he already knew for a fact that his old place had been obliterated, but maybe this kid had someplace to go._

_He almost asked, out of force of habit, before he remembered his useless, destroyed vocal cords and instead resorted to thinking some_ very _swear-heavy thoughts towards those bastards that had mangled his ability to speak in the first place._

_The kid was wheezing and gasping, which didn’t seem fair, considering he himself was doing all the work, but regardless, he had gone to all the trouble of saving this boy, and he wasn’t about to let him die on his watch._

_He found a shady bench outside a restaurant and sat, pulling the boy down with him. A few other filthy prisoners stumbled past in the street, easily recognizable in their months-old clothes and crazy hair and beards. There were only a few of the escaped coming this way; most of them had gone other ways to other places._

_He hoped they all made it. He would hate for all his and Riley and their group of solo rebels’ work to be for nothing._

_The boy leaned against him and gasped for air, and he figured that they wouldn’t start moving again for at least a few more minutes, so he started trying to find ways to communicate with him. He needed to know where the guy lived, who he lived with, and if it was an option for him to go there, too, with nowhere else to go._

_The boy seemed to think of this, too, and as soon as he had caught his breath, he coughed and asked, “Who are you, and why did you help me?”_

_He once again opened his mouth to reply before remembering his stupid disability, and instead tapped his throat helplessly, indicating that he couldn’t speak._

_The guy seemed to understand, and nodded. “But you can hear?” he asked, gesturing to his own ears._

_He nodded. Thankfully, that was one ability the government hadn't stolen from him._

_“Okay,” the boy said, running a hand through his hair. “Well, if we had some paper…”_

_He trailed off, something catching his eye in the window, and he dashed off into the restaurant only to return with a pad of paper and a cheap pencil._

_“There. Now you can write out what you want to say.”_

_He made a gesture to the boy, like,_ ask away, kid.

_“Why did you help me?”_

_He grabbed the pencil and paper._ Because it was the right thing to do.

_“Okay… what were those blasts? Bombs?”_

Yes.

_“Why?”_

There was a group of solo rebels who banded together to get a friend out of there, and they needed inside contacts to help set the plan in motion, so they called on me and a few others.

_“What did they do to you?”_

Same as they did to everyone else. Hurt me for no good reason.

_He wrote this last sentence with such force behind his hand that he ripped a hole in the paper, and flipped the page on the pad for a fresh new sheet._

_“Okay… Where do you live?”_

Used to live in an apt. It was destroyed.

_“Do you need somewhere to stay?”_

_He looked at him hopefully. This was all the answer the boy seemed to need._

_“Okay. I have a group of friends that would be more than happy to take you in- they’re good at adopting strays. We can go there now.”_

You know where they are?

_“I hope so,” and at this the boy looked concerned. “Unless they’ve relocated, in which case I have no idea where they are.”_

Shut up. Anyways, we need to move. The gov-bots can’t be far behind us. Let’s go. 

_He stuffed the pad of paper and pencil into the waistband of his pants and stood, pulling the boy up with him._

_“I forgot to ask your name.”_

_His knowledge of sign language was limited, but he did know one thing- his name._

_His forefinger and middle finger twisted together to create a letter. The letter that he went by because he detested his family name._

R, _his hand said, voicing what his useless throat could not._ My name is R.

***

Gavroche figured he, along with the rest of their wing of cells, was in for it.

The gov-bots didn’t know who had set off the explosion that had led to the mass prison break, but once they had things more or less under control, they were _pissed._

People didn’t just bomb a base and  break out a couple hundred government prisoners. They just _didn’t._ But these people had. And Gavroche wanted, if he got out of this alive, to shake the leader’s hand, because theirs was the only wing on their floor that hadn't been evacuated by the rebels. Which meant that a few hundred people with a particular hatred for the government were now free and out there, plotting the government’s end.

The sooner that happened, the sooner he could get back to Eponine.

This of course left over twenty floors of prisoners who had _not_ been busted out, but hey, growing up a Thenardier, you learned to celebrate the little victories.

Right now, he, Bahorel, and the other eleven members of their wing of cells were standing in a line in the interrogation room, watching a gov-bot angrily pace back and forth in front of them, ranting about the importance of _order_ and _discipline_.

Yawn. Gavroche had heard this all before- from condescending adults correcting him, pretending they cared about him when really he was just a pain in the ass, his parents, early on, trying to teach him at least a few morals before tossing him out into the mercy of the streets, even friends, looking down on him because of his behavior, his upbringing.

Then a second gov-bot entered the room an reported that there were currently no survivors left in the base. Hopefully this meant that all the survivors of the explosion and stampede had been reimprisoned. The alternative was…. Gavroche didn’t much want to think of the alternative.

“Excellent,” the  first gov-bot said, a wicked tone behind his voice, and he turned and addressed the room at large. “As you all know, there was an attack on this very building earlier today.”

 _Um, duh,_ Gavroche thought. _We were literally all right there._

“This was an act of direct defiance and treason, and the perpetrators must be… dealt with accordingly.”

There was absolutely no doubt in Gavroche’s mind  exactly what _that_ meant.

“However, if you were involved in this, and you turn yourself or your partners in crime in _now,_ your punishments will be less severe.”

No one moved. No one spoke. It didn’t even sound like they were breathing.

“No one? How interesting.” The gov-bot motioned to his partner, who promptly shoved the first guy in line forward. He stumbled, and Gavroche noticed that he walked with a limp.

“What’s your name?”

“What?” The boy, who  couldn’t have been more than five years older than Gavroche, looked terrified.

“Are you _freaking_ deaf, what is your _name_ , boy?”

“Ch- Charlie, sir.”

“And Charlie, did you have anything to do with this _heinous_ act of rebellion against the government of this good country?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Very nice.”

Quick as a wink, the first gov-bot drew his gun and shot Charlie in the chest. The boy crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Several people in line let out little gasps, but no one was crazy enough to challenge the gov-bots.

Well, except stupid, _stupid,_ brave Bahorel .

“You can’t do that!” he cried. “He told you he wasn’t part of the uprising! You can’t just shoot him for no reason!”

The gov-bot got very close to Bahorel  and sneered, or did as close to a sneer as you could do when your face was an emotionless slab of metal. “I _can,_ ”  he said, “and I _just did._ Now, do you care to question my methods any more, or shall you be next?”

Bahorel  met the bot’s eyes defiantly, but (thankfully) didn’t say anything else.

They moved on to the next person in line, an old man named Morrie.

“And, Msr. Morrie, did you have anything at all to do with this terrible act of defiance against all that is good and pure in this society?”

Morrie shifted slightly on his feet, but one glance at Charlie’s limp body and he must have known what was coming regardless of what he said or did. So he faced the bot with dignity and quietly answered that no, he had had no part in the rebellion.

 _Bang._ Another body joined the boy’s.

They were on the third prisoner, the girl, who looked to be in her twenties and informed the gov-bots that her name was Gawynn.

“Gwynn?”

“ _Ga-_ wynn. With a _Ga._ ”

“ _Ga-_ wynn,” and it was clear he was just mocking her now. “Did you have any involvement in this act of treachery?”

Gavroche realized that they were just going down the line, killing them all one by one, and he couldn’t let that happen, to Bahorel or to himself. He shouldn’t have let it happen to Charlie, the boy with the limp, or Morrie, the old man. And he wouldn’t let it happen to Gawynn.

So he began singing. Very softly, and very slowly, some nonsense song about listening to the people as they sing. He remembered how much the songs had aggravated the gov-bots before, and wasn’t disappointed this time.

The gov-bot froze. “ _Who the hell is that?”_

All they had to do was look at who  was clearly singing, and they’d have him, but then Itey joined in. Bahorel  followed soon after, and soon the entire line of prisoners was participating in the second blatant act of defiance in twenty-four hours by singing.

The two gov-bots were going insane, yelling at them to stop and waving their guns helplessly, as the song gradually grew louder and faster as it went on. When the song finally ended, Gavroche trailed off, and the others followed his example.

The bots were so pissed, they didn’t have it in them to shoot anyone else. The entire wing was sent back to their cells.

Without dinner, but hey. Little victories.

Gawynn personally thanked Gavroche for, as she put it, “saving my ass back there. Without you, I’d’ve bitten dust.”

He shrugged it off. He hadn't been that heroic. And he hadn't been fast enough to save Charlie or Morrie.

It had been a few hours since their mini-revolution-by-singing, and no gov-bots had been by to patrol or even check on them yet.

“Prob’bly scared we’s gonna sing summore,” laughed Itey, and the others had chimed in cheerfully. Since their first song, there had been a growing sense of comradery among the cellmates, and  now that they had  banded together to save each other, the bond was even stronger.

 _Do not get attached to these people,_ the rational part of Gavroche’s mind said. _You will get attached from them and then  they will leave you, or you will leave them._

He chose to ignore that part of his brain, as did, he noted, the others, who undoubtedly had the voice of reason pestering them, too.

Another hour passed with no supervision, so they were all making friendly conversation, although Gavroche was mostly talking to Bahorel  about Les Amis.

Then, midway through the next hour, someone strode in, and all conversations came to a halt.

But this wasn’t a gov-bot. This was a _human._ And while Gavroche knew that the government employed people, too, it was still odd to see a person in a gov-bot uniform.

The guard marched right to the end of the hall, to Gavroche’s and Bahorel ’s cells, and all Gavroche could think was, _oh, now we’re in for it._

Then the guard crouched down so that he was eye-level with the boys, who were both sitting against the walls, and spoke fast and low, in an urgent tone.

“My name is Madeleine,” he said. “I am here undercover, and I mean you no harm. I want to help you. I have reason to believe your Amis may have joined forces with my daughter, and I may have a way you can contact your friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plz don't hurt me
> 
> see where my sign language has gotten me? one. full. letter. you should be very proud of me
> 
> so... was it a surprise or nah? i suck at mystery i'm sorry
> 
> also we all wish we could rant like teeny tiny powerful as crap cosette. dont even deny it. 
> 
> again- beach tomorrow. expect updates, but they won't be regular ones.
> 
> love you all! thanks so much for reading!
> 
> -byrd


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a call is made and people are actually capable of feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i'm gonna update EVEN MORE now that i'm at the beach!"
> 
> -me, frikin lying to myself
> 
> i'm still alive (lol it's only been a day ik but thats a LONG TIME)
> 
> here you go. chapter eleven. 
> 
> where people are actually capable of feelings and stuff
> 
> much thanks to kevin, who has been v supportive of my watching (stalking) of cute boys on the beach
> 
> here goes
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Eleven_

Msr. Madeleine, as Bahorel  came to find out,  was a genius.

He explained that he was a rebel, not a part of any group but a solo, here undercover to learn government secrets and to help the other rebels as need be. He’d been in this base about a month, he said, but when  he overheard his daughter telling him about the revolutionary group she was harboring in  their home and learned that this group, Les Amis, were looking for a little boy who had been captured, he remembered seeing Gavroche once on one of his shifts. When he heard Bahorel  and Gavroche talking about Les Amis, the deal was sealed, and he made up his mind to save Gavroche.

“And you, of course, monsieur,” Madeleine said, glancing at Bahorel .

He told them that he was going to escort them out of here, under the cover that he was taking them to the interrogation room, and then they were going to veer off into a secure location that he had already reserved- a meeting room on the third level where they would be able to contact Les Amis without any gov-bots interfering.

“Third level down?” Bahorel  asked. “So we’re going up?”

Madeleine looked at him thoughtfully. “What floor do you think we’re on right now?”

“Pretty far down?” Bahorel  looked unsure. “I mean, there aren’t any windows, and we’ve got to go up to get to the interrogation room…”

“You’re only one level under,” Madeleine said, amusement gracing his weathered features. “You’ve got to climb  up because that room is one level _aboveground_.”

Gavroche sighed. “So it’s a ‘elluva lot easier fo’ us t’ get outta here now. B’cause we’re so close t’ th’ surface. Tha’s good, in’t it?”

“Very good,” Madeleine agreed. “But before we escape, we’re going to contact your friends.”

He straightened up and said in a much louder voice, “Come with me, boys. _Now._ ”

***

Feuilly vanished to his room after his conversation with Enjolras was over. He knew dinner was in a few minutes, and he would just have to climb back down the stairs again, but he needed some alone time.

He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t help feeling the slightest bit resentful of these all-powerful rebels, who hadn't been able to help Les Amis while they were losing a member a day, but suddenly had the arms to bomb a government base and free hundreds of prisoners.

If they would have _helped_ Les Amis, Jehan wouldn’t be dead. Gavroche wouldn’t be locked up.

And Bahorel wouldn’t be dead. _Damn it_ , his best friend in the world wouldn’t be dead. He would be sitting beside Feuilly right now, laughing at how ridiculous Feuilly was being. He would bump Feuilly’s shoulder with his own and tell him to cheer up, that it could be worse, that it could always be worse.

If Bahorel  were here, Feuilly might have considered taking that extra bedroom instead of isolating himself in the attic. He might have even considered being okay with sleeping on the floor of that bedroom, so long as he was secure in the knowledge that his big, warm best friend was mere yards away.

But now, that extra bedroom sat, cavernous and empty, a reminder of the friends they’d lost, and Feuilly would sleep outside before he condemned himself to that.

Feuilly wasn’t a pessimist, but he sure as hell wasn’t an optimist either. He looked at life for what it was- some days were hell. Other days were better. Since  the end of the world, most days were the former rather than the latter; losing three friends in less than a week was not improving Feuilly’s view of life.

Especially since one of those friends was _Bahorel._ Untouchable, built-like-a-rock, always there for you Bahorel, who was always up for a movie marathon or a boxing match, whichever Feuilly’s mood required. Bahorel, who was terrifying when he was angry, but always had a smile for when Feuilly’s day had been complete _shit_ and _yes, of course I want to do a movie marathon, Feu, what would you like to watch?_ Bahorel  was just a good person, and Feuilly loved him so, _so_ much.

_And there was his stupid crush speaking again_.

He needed to let Bahorel  go. He was gone, and thinking of him, _pining_ after him like a heartsick schoolgirl, wasn’t helping their cause. Wasn’t helping the cause Bahorel  had given his life for.

He looked up and realized he had reached the door to the attic. Sighing heavily, he pulled it open and climbed the stairs to his  little alcove, where he sat on his cot and opened his laptop.

It wasn’t even technically his laptop. It had belonged to Bahorel , and it was a beat-up, battered old thing, at least ten years past its warranty. It was also a temperamental little shit, sometimes choosing to boot up like a snail, and sometimes not botting up at all. Feuilly had tried to fix it multiple times, to no avail, but Bahorel  said he liked it just the way it was.

“Stubborn,” he had said, brown eyes twinkling with laughter at Feuilly’s  frustration. “It’s got _personality,_ Feu.”

Feuilly had threatened to throw the piece of junk out several times, but he never did. Bahorel  was right. It did have personality, and now that Bahorel  was gone, it was like a part of him remained, stubbornly refusing to bring up Feuilly’s internet browser.

Feuilly smiled, then caught himself.

He was _so, so_ screwed.

The device still hadn't loaded, and Feuilly cast one longing glance into his backpack at his own laptop- the one that actually belonged to him, a sleek, slim model that loaded faster than anything, before closing Bahorel ’s piece of crap and grabbing that instead.

As it turned on (significantly faster than the other one, Feuilly noted with appreciation), he noticed that he had over six hundred notifications.

He tried to remember when he had last checked his email, and found he couldn’t quite recall. It must have been over a year ago, because he hadn't even thought to check it since the end of the civilized government. And scrolling through, this much was obvious. Subscriptions from newspapers and magazines telling him that his account had expired and he needed to renew it, spam mail, a few emails from teachers, outlining lesson plans that they would never end up teaching, but nothing personal. No relatives had emailed him, but that was just as well; all his known relatives were dead. No emails from friends, but there was no need. All his friends were within shouting distance, and if Courfeyrac was feeling particularly lazy, he texted people from the next room.

Suddenly very fed up with the _normalcy_ of checking his emails, he selected _delete all_ , and watched as the past year moved to the trash icon. He was about to close his laptop- he could smell the delicious aroma of dinner downstairs and knew that he would soon be called back downstairs for it.

Then a green button blinked at the bottom of his screen- a video call. His mouse hovered over it, but he hesitated.

Video calls, especially calls from unknown numbers, as this one was,  were tricky. On one hand, it could be a completely innocent call, perhaps an ally, or a wrong number. But more likely, it would be a trick. A government call that, as soon as he opened it, revealed not only his  face but his location. It would be like waving a flag and shouting, _here I am!_

So the risk probably wasn’t worth it. He took his mouse off the _Accept_ button and let it ring, and ring, and ring.

The caller didn’t seem to be giving up, and Feuilly wondered if he had made the right decision in ignoring the call. After all, it could be an emergency. And then it stopped abruptly.

He sighed in relief and  went to close his laptop a second time, when again, something caught his attention. The chat window was open, and _Unknown Number_ was typing.

Well… chat was probably safe. After all, they couldn’t see his face, and they couldn’t confirm it was him.

**Unknown Number:** is this th right # 

**You:** depends. who are you looking for? 

**Unknown Number:**  skinny ging polish freak. u seen him?

It hadn't used his name, or his group, or anything else, but Feuilly knew for certain it was talking about him. And what was worse, that was what _Bahorel_ had  called him. That was Bahorel ’s right, and his right alone. Meaning that to get this information out of Bahorel , they would have to have tortured him. _Majorly,_ because Bahorel  had this stupid macho thing where he didn’t just _tell_ people things. It had to be fought, or bribed, or pleaded out of him.

And since the government didn’t _plead,_ and Bahorel  would die before he accepted any bribes from them, it meant  they had caused him physical pain until he cracked. Maybe he had been crying as he said it. Maybe he’d been so in pain that he had had to whisper it.

That thought made Feuilly so mad that he pounded the keyboard with his fingers, probably causing damage to the keys that he would have to look at them later.

**You:** no? I haven’t. sorry. 

**Unknown Number:** well can u find him? friend wants 2 say hi

_That’s a likely story_ , Feuilly thought, and snorted out loud as he replied.

**You:** sure. what do you really want? 

**Unknown Number:** alrdy said. 2 say hi. 

**You:** I don’t believe you. 

**Unknown Number:** what cn i say 2 cnvince u 

**You:** what’s your name? 

**Unknown Number:** gav

Feuilly’s fingers froze over the keyboard. _Gavroche._

Well, unless the gov-bots had tortured the kid, too.

**You:** prove it. 

**Unknown Number is typing**

***

The fingers of Gavroche’s left hand flew across the government computer. His right hand was out of the option because of his (probably broken) bone causing his hand to hang awkwardly, and the government computer was a piece of junk and three years outdated, but it was all he had to work with.

Bahorel  was keeping guard by the door to the abandoned meeting room, and Msr. Madeleine was at the end of the hall, also watching out for intruders.

He had asked Bahorel  for one of Les Amis’ Skype accounts, and shouldn’t have been surprised when the first one Bahorel  came up with was Feuilly’s.

So he had tried calling Feuilly, and it had rang for about a minute when Gavroche realized that, one, he was calling from a government laptop, and two, Feuilly was not an idiot. He wouldn’t answer a call from an unknown number, especially during these times, with so many people wanting him and his group dead.

So he opened a new chat and typed: _is this th right #_

Normally, he was all for spelling things right. It was a sign of maturity, and  when hacking government files, maturity was typically best so as not to get caught because he was the ten-year-old idiot who used _2_ instead of _two._ So usually, he spelled things correctly. But today, he had no time, and besides, his left hand was his non-dominant one. He figured he had an excuse.

**Theboldandthefeu:** depends. who are you looking for?

Of course he’d be evasive and mysterious. There was a reason he was still alive,  after all. Gavroche admired that he gave an answer without giving an answer, but he had no time for this shit right now.

“Bahorel ,” he called, and at the door, his friend looked up. “Yer boyfriend’s bein’ stubborn.”

Bahorel  lumbered over. “He’s not my  _boyfriend,_ he doesn’t even _like_ me, I really shouldn’t have told you that, should I?”

“Nope.” Gavroche leaned back in his chair. “But y’ need t’ come ‘vince him it’s you.”

Bahorel tilted the keyboard in his own direction and  typed something out quickly. When  he gave it back, Gavroche saw that it now read:

**You:** skinny ging polish freak. u seen him?

Gavroche snickered, but the response from Feuilly was less than enthusiastic.

**Theboldandthefeu:** no? I haven’t. sorry.

Gavroche groaned. “Bahorel, _do somethin'_. He don’t believe it’s me!”

Bahorel sighed. “Tell him a friend is looking for him. He might ask who, and then we can establish exactly who he’s talking to.”

Gavroche typed out an answer, and, still not entirely satisfied with it, hit _send_ anyways.

**You:** well can u find him? friend wants 2 say hi

_Lame,_ a helpful voice in the back of Gavroche’s mind said. He knew it was true, but he was frantic. Any moment, a gov-bot could come through that hallway, and then this little communication session would be over, possibly never to be had again. This was their one chance.

**Theboldandthefeu:** sure. what do you really want?

Gavroche felt like smashing his face on the keyboard, but he managed to remain calm and type out a decent answer.

**You:** alrdy said. 2 say hi. **Theboldandthefeu:** I don’t believe you.

“Bahoreeeeeeeellll….” Gavroche whined, but this time, he was ignored.

**You:** what cn i say 2 cnvince u

At this point, he was getting desperate. Anything to convince Feuilly that it was him and not a government rat.

**Theboldandthefeu:** what’s your name?

Gavroche’s small fingers hovered over the letters for a moment. Putting his name out there was risky. It could get him found out and caught. But he was running out of options here.

**You:** gav

**Theboldandthefeu:** prove it

This time, Gavroche _did_ slam his face against the keyboard, producing: _nbhjnbhjh._ He deleted it and tried again, fingers twitching in anticipation of what he needed to say.

**You:** my name is gav t. my dad is th big t, and im not from a friendly place. the raven is my sis & when she  got out of her cage, i got locked up. standing less than 10 yds away is ur friend th boxer. he sends his hello, and wants u to know tht he still thinks ur a freak, even if he does miss u.

He hesitated, then pressed _Send_. On a whim, and on a note of complete _I-told-you-so-_ assholery, he also sent:

**You:** anything else, feu?

***

Feuilly’s heart had restarted about ten seconds ago and was still struggling to make up for lost time. He was an inexperienced runner trying to run a marathon. He was dying. He was _already dead._

Gavroche was alive. Gavroche was alive and able to message him, meaning several things.

First, he wasn’t so injured that he couldn’t type.

Second, he had some inside connections allowing him access to a computer, or he was sneaking around and probably going to get himself killed.

And third, and most importantly, _Bahorel  was with him._ Bahorel  was alive and with Gavroche, and Feuilly found his eyes pricking  with tears.

He couldn’t believe this. His best friend wasn’t dead. He was alive, alive and uninjured, or surely Gavroche would have said something?

He didn’t wait any longer. He pressed the _Call_ button and waited anxiously for the one face he wanted to see more than anything to fill the screen.

***

**Theboldandthefeu is calling you**

Gavroche pumped his fist in a silent victory dance and spun in his chair, facing Bahorel.

“He wants t' talk t' you.”

Bahorel  shoved Gavroche over, sending the rolling chair sliding across the floor, and slammed the _Accept_ button blinking on the screen. Gavroche just laughed and scooted back to his place, just out of view of the camera. Just as well. He wanted to give these two nerds this moment.

Bahorel  waited as the video call  loaded, and then it connected and he was _there._ Pixelated on the crappy quality of the government computer, yes, but he was there, with his stupid Polish features and his stupid flaming red hair and his stupid, _stupid_ grin that made Bahorel ’s knees weak.

“ Rel,” he whispered in a shaky voice, and Bahorel smiled wider than he had ever smiled before.

“Hey, Feu.”

***

“Hey, Feu.”

Feuilly was going to lose it. He was going to cry because he had thought his best friend was dead, he had thought that he was gone and he had been mourning him ever since. He had been pining over a dead boy, but now he was alive and smiling through the internet at him, and suddenly Feuilly remembered that he was no longer pining after a dead person. He was now _very much in love_ with someone who was _very much alive,_ and that made him so happy that he gave a high-pitched little laugh that sounded slightly insane.

Courfeyrac would tease him mercilessly about this- crying like a baby and laughing like a loon at the sight of his friend and crush onscreen.

Speaking of which, Courfeyrac still didn’t know Bahorel  was even onscreen. None of Les Amis did.

“Oh my God!” Feuilly shrieked, and jumped up. “The others!”

He grabbed his laptop and sprinted down the stairs to the living room, where he promptly deposited the laptop on the coffee table.

“Hey guys.” Bahorel ’s voice was tinny over the speakers, but regardless, it was still unmistakably his voice. Enjolras jumped off the couch and came over to see what was going on, and when he saw Bahorel’s grainy image on the laptop, he gasped.

“You guys?” he called. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked up from whatever they had been doing. “Is that…” Courfeyrac seemed almost too shocked to voice the thought. “Bahorel ?”

“In the flesh. Or over the internet. Either one,” he said, laughing, and Feuilly laughed too, a relieved, breathy sound that he’d been holding in since he’d heard the gunshots days ago.

Since he’d thought his friend dead.

“Ey, Chetta! Pontmercy! C’mere!” Courfeyrac called, and they appeared in the kitchen doorway seconds later.

Marius’ eyes widened almost comically. “Bahorel!”

Musichetta just laughed. “Glad you’re alright, Rel. I’m going to get my boys.”

“Probably making out in the bathroom,” Enjolras muttered.

“That’s unsanitary,” commented Joly from the doorway. “And it wasn’t _making out_. There was no tongue involved.”

“This time,” Bossuet muttered, right behind him. “Sadly.”

“Aaaaand we are quickly toing the line of _too much information_ ,” Courfeyrac announced, then returned his attention to the screen. “How are you, dude? Been holding up alright in that shithole?”

“Language!” came a voice from Bahorel ’s end of the call, and Gavroche’s bruised and filthy face appeared in the tiny box onscreen, too.

“Gavroche!” several people chorused at once.

He smiled, never one to complain about being the center of attention, then just as quickly, frowned. “Where’s my sister?”

“Oh shit, Eponine,” muttered Bossuet. “She’ll be rabid if she figures out she missed _this_.” And with that, he sprinted up the stairs, missing several and tripping over at least three.

“She’s rabid anyways,” Joly sighed, directing his attention to the computer. “She’s worried about you, Gav.”

“‘Ere’s no need,” he said, smiling once more. “It’s good. I ain’t even hurt!”

“…Much,” came Bahorel ’s voice, and he once more gained control of the screen. “You aren’t hurt _much_.”

“‘M fine.” Gavroche made a waving motion with his hand, as though he were brushing his problems away. Feuilly wished he could once more have the naivety and the optimism of a child. Life was just so much easier for them.

“You can’t _walk_ ,” Bahorel  argued. “I had to carry you here.”

“Speaking of which,” Enjolras said. “Where are you? How are you able to contact us?”

“A very helpful rebel spy, stationed in here to help the revolution. He snuck us into this old meeting room that they don’t really use anymore.” Bahorel  turned around, as though looking for this very helpful rebel.  “He’s keeping watch at the end of the hallway.”

Combeferre frowned. “And you’re sure he can be trusted?”

“’E’s good,” put in Gavroche. “I trust ‘im.”

For whatever reason, this seemed to reassure everyone. _Oh, if the ten-year-old son of the world’s biggest crime lord trusts him, that’s good enough for us!_ But Gavroche was a good kid, and when he wasn’t causing problems, he was excellent at solving them. He was also an amazing judge of character. Having  grown up amongst so many bad influences had taught him what to look out for in a person.

“What’s his name?” asked Enjolras, laptop already out and search browser pulled up.

“Madeleine?” But it sounded like a question. Bahorel  turned to Gavroche. “Didn’t he say his name was Madeleine?”

The kid nodded. “He’s here disguised as a guard, but he’s really working for the revolution. He said his daughter is harboring revolutionaries right now,  actually.”

“That’s right.” Cosette had appeared behind the couch. “She is.”

“You know her?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I _am_ her,” she laughed, and suddenly a lot of things made sense.

“That’s why you were so willing to take us in,” Feuilly said. “Your father works for the cause, too.”

She nodded. “Papa does fieldwork, the kind that is dangerous, action-packed, and on the front line. I prefer to stay behind the scenes and secretly help out.”

“A very worthy cause, mademoiselle,” Marius was quick to assure her, and her dainty cheeks turned pink.

“Anyways,” Enjolras said, quick to turn away from the pair of them and return to the task at hand, “why this call? Do you need us to come bust you out?”

“We had hoped that when the bombs  blew up a portion of the prison,” Joly said, “Gavroche had escaped.”

“But not me?” Bahorel  clutched his chest dramatically. “You underestimate my power?”

“To be fair,” laughed Feuilly. “We did think you were _dead_.”

“You wound me with your doubting, unbelievers!”

Everyone smiled at that.

“Nah, th’ bombs di’n’t go off in our side of th’ jail,” Gavroche said. “Lotsa others got out, though.”

“Yes, we heard.” Combeferre said. “And hoped. But at least you’re alive.”

“Yeah.” Gavroche suddenly looked very solemn. “Lotsa pris’ners can’t say as much.”

“And Bahorel is alive, too,” put in Feuilly, not wanting the victory of this detail to go unnoticed. An hour ago, they had thought his best friend was _dead._ Now he was laughing and smiling and making jokes over the internet, and Feuilly’s heart felt so full he thought it may burst.

“But of course, Feu. You can’t hold me down for long. I’ll just pop right back up again.”

“Like a daisy,” added Gavroche, and everyone laughed again.

“ _Gav!_ ” someone shrieked, and Feuilly found himself being tackled out of view of the camera. Eponine had dived onto the couch to see her brother, and now Feuilly was out of sight of the computer and Eponine was laughing breathlessly at the sight of her little brother, _alive_ and _healthy_ , on the screen.

“You’re okay,” she kept saying, over and over again, her eyes misty, but no tears fell. “You’re alright.”

“I’m alrigh’, Ponine.” Gavroche’s voice held none of its usual sarcasm or sass. “I’m alrigh’.”

The others remained silent, not wanting to interrupt this special moment for the two of them, when finally Joly spoke up.

“How badly are you two hurt?”

Bahorel’s eyes narrowed. “They still haven’t touched me, and I don’t know why.”

“You mean you aren’t hurt?” Feuilly had been imagining scenarios where Bahorel was being tortured for information, bruised and bloody, barely holding on to life. To learn that he hadn't even been _touched_ was so relieving, Feuilly felt like crying all over again.

“No, they haven’t. And to be honest, it’s getting a bit nerve-wracking. I don’t know what they’re planning on doing to me, but it can’t be good if they’ve postponed _torture_ for it.”

“But you’re okay,” Feuilly clarified.

“Yes, _Mum._ I’m fine.” But Feuilly could see his small smile and knew he wasn’t _really_ annoyed.

“And what about you, Gavroche?” Eponine asked, sounding almost afraid of the answer.

Gavroche looked down at himself. “Um… coupla bruises, few scratches, m’ arm’s sore, m’ foot ‘urts. Nothin’ major.”

“I’m  calling bullshit.” Eponine leaned back on the couch and glared into the camera. “You’re a pretty good liar, but not _that_ good. Your eyes twitch when you fib. Bahorel , how bad is it?”

“Pretty bad.”

Gavroche smacked his shoulder. “Traitor.”

“His arm’s probably broken,” Bahorel  went on, “and his ankle might be twisted. A rib might be bruised. Other than that, yeah, he’s fine.”

“Nothin’ life-threatenin’!”Gavroche was quick to point out.

“Unless that bruised rib shifts and punctures a lung,” Joly said nervously.

“No, that’s if it’s broken. Stop stressing them out,” Combeferre said, closing his own laptop and moving closer to the one on the coffee table. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but when we bust out of here, Joly and Ferre should probably look at him just in case,” Bahorel  said.

“You’re busting out? Alone?” Feuilly asked.

“Not alone. Madeleine’s got contacts and allies _everywhere_. He’s going to help us.”

“When do you hope to leave?” Combeferre asked.

Bahorel  repeated the question, louder, and in the distance on their end, Les Amis could hear a deep voice respond.

“Tonight, if at all possible,” Bahorel relayed. “We’ll be home by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Feuilly felt his heart do that weird swooping motion again. In less than a day, his best friend was going to be home, finally. In less than a day, Bahorel  would be here, in person, and Feuilly may finally have an opportunity to _act_ on this stupid crush, do something about it so he could stop freaking pining.

“Great. Can we help at all, or…?” Enjolras trailed off. Feuilly knew he hated feeling so helpless, but it sounded like Madeleine and his contacts had this  jailbreak under control.

“Nah. Just be ready for us, in case we’re being tailed by gov-bots,” Bahorel  said.

“We’ll be ready,” Combeferre said with a small smile. “That we can do.”

Someone in the background on their end barked something, and Gavroche and Bahorel  both reacted.

“Shit, that’s us,” Gavroche muttered.

“Language.” Musichetta didn’t sound like she meant it. “What’s happening?”

“Our time’s up,” Bahorel  said. “We’ve got to go, _now_.”

“Bye!” Gavroche waved at the screen, then ducked out of sight.

Bahorel  started to turn it off, then must have thought of something. “Feuilly?”

“Yes?”

“I-I have something to tell you.”

Behind him, Feuilly heard something that sounded suspiciously like _Finally._ Feuilly chose to ignore him.

“Yes, Rel?”

Bahorel swallowed and fidgeted, and was it Feuilly’s imagination, or did the  huge man look _nervous?_

“I—“

“Bahorel , _come on!_ ” Gavroche cried in the background, and Bahorel  blinked.

“I, ah…”

“You need to go,” Feuilly said softly, very, _very_ aware of the entirety of Les Amis watching this entire conversation from behind him.

“I- yeah, I need to go. I’ll tell you when we get home. I gotta—yeah, I gotta go. Bye!”

And with that surprising display of incoherency, Bahorel finally pressed the _End Call_ button, and the video call ended, still frozen on his nervous smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol nerds
> 
> also in the dystopian future they still have skype (and an internet connection) bc ARTISTIC LISCENCE
> 
> confession: i've never actually skyped anyone 
> 
> i have no friends to skype oops
> 
> except for kevin. kevin is a national treasure.  
> less than three, bae
> 
> thanks so much for reading and commenting!
> 
> -byrd


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author is confusing herself with the number of different POVs she's using

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo. byrd here.
> 
> so i'm leaving the beach in like.. ten minutes? trying to get htis up before i'm trapped.
> 
> without wifi.
> 
> in a car.
> 
> for no less than six hours.
> 
> ...
> 
> *screams*
> 
> anyways, thanks, as always, to the lovely kevin, who is my number one fan
> 
> and ShippingEverything, who is too sweet for this world and makes me wonder what i've done to deserve such amazing readers
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twelve_

_R was exhausted._

_He and his companion hadn't slept for a full day for fear of the gov-bots coming after them while their guard was down, and they had been traveling for hours._

_His companion insisted that his group’s base was somewhere around where they were, but all R could see was rubble. This neighborhood had been bombed, and recently too, if the still-smoking piles of building debris were anything to go by._

_He tried writing this observation down and showing it to the boy, but he refused to look at the paper, pushing it away angrily and plowing ahead through the junk piles._

_That was the problem with having no voice._

_You couldn’t_ make _people listen to you._

 _“It’s called the_ Café Musain, _” his companion called over his shoulder, though he had already said so eight times and it was R’s throat that was destroyed, not his hearing or his memory._

I know, _he wanted to say. Couldn’t say._

_They wandered through the neighborhood for another hour, with no success. The boy kept insisting that the café was close, but R started to doubt after the first ten minutes. By the half-hour mark, he was ready to call it quits, but the other boy pressed on, determined to find this place that R was more and more convinced didn’t exist._

_Finally, just when he thought they were giving up, and thank goodness  for that, he was tired, the boy stopped in front of a charred heap of metal._

_R came over and saw that it was a fridge- or what used to be one. It was blackened around the edges and most likely no longer functioned as a fridge was supposed to, but it was there, and if the boy was stopping here, then he must recognize it._

_Cafes had fridges, R reasoned. This fridge may have been a part of the Musain._

_His companion wrenched open the fridge door and poked his head inside. Peering inside as well, R saw that it wasn’t a normal fridge- rather than shelves of food, there was a trapdoor at the bottom._

_And through the trapdoor, he learned in the next five minutes, was a secret base- a bomb shelter left over from the war that this boy’s group must have taken over and lived in._

_But there certainly wasn’t anyone living there now, although it looked just recently evacuated. The couch still had indentation marks from bodies having sat there recently. The kitchenette still had a few pieces of fruit left on the counter that hadn't yet been given time to go back. No lights or electronics were on, and R’s companion stepped off the ladder and looked around in awe for a moment, then sprinted into the back, calling names R didn’t recognize at first, and then he really listened._

_Courfeyrac_

_Enjolras_

_Combeferre_

_Courfeyrac_

_Bahorel_

_Courfeyrac_

_And slowly he began to realize who exactly this boy was._

_He scribbled something down on his pad of paper and shoved it in the boy’s face, forcing him to see it._

I know those names. You’re a part of Les Amis.

_“What are you talking about?” the boy laughed nervously._

You’re a crap liar.

_“I know,” he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’ve got me. I’ve got a bounty over my head that will feed this city for weeks. You’ve got a member of the most evasive, sneakiest revolutionaries in this country. What’re you gonna do with me? Send me back to that living hell?” He leaned in close to R. “Because I’m warning you, I won’t go quietly.”_

_R shook his head and wrote something else._

I won’t turn you in

_The boy’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and R realized he’d been referring to him as “the boy” in his head since he had lifted the beam off him. He hadn't even thought to ask the boy’s name._

What’s your name?

_The boy tensed up, clearly not wanting to give that information._

Dude. If you don’t tell me, I can just run through the Amis. They’re quite well-known. And besides, I told you mine.

_“Good point,” he sighed. “My name is…. Well, my friends call me Jehan. You’re welcome to, if you’d like. I mean, you did save my life.”_

_R stuck out a hand for Jehan to shake, and he looked a bit surprised, but he shook it._

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jehan

***

Gavroche didn’t remember ever feeling so happy in his life.

Because for once, everything had gone exactly as they had planned.

Monsieur Madeleine had managed to distract the guards at precisely the right time and had snuck Bahorel  and Gavroche down a back hallway and up a flight of service stairs. When the stationed gov-bots had been momentarily detained with an explosion that one of Madeleine’s contacts outside the base had set off, both Bahorel  and Gavroche had slipped out the fence and into the woods bordering the base.

There they had met up with Madeleine, who had explained that he would not be accompanying them back home, at least not yet. He needed to stay and continue to help the rebels from inside the government base, and besides, he wanted to help break some more people out.

Gavroche thought of Gawynn and Itey and all the others they had left behind in their wing of cells, and felt slightly guilty. But that was why Madeleine was there- to help where Bahorel  and  Gavroche, as prisoners, would be useless.

So now, as they ran (or, Bahorel  ran. Gavroche rode on his back,)  through the forest where Jehan  had been killed and Bahorel  had been captured, Gavroche felt oddly… hopeful.

In less than an hour, assuming they were able to follow the directions Madeleine had given them, they would be back among Les Amis- back among their family. Bahorel  would be with Feuilly (finally, Gavroche thought, because those nerds needed to pull it together). Gavroche would be back with Eponine. The Amis would almost be a complete group again.

So as they went, Bahorel  stumbling over roots and in between trees, both of them scratching up their arms on branches and not even caring, Gavroche allowed himself a bit of hope. They were going to make it. Nothing else could go wrong.

And of course, in believing this, he broke the Thenardiers’ number one rule- you don’t jinx situations by thinking nothing else can happen. Things can always, _always_ happen.

So naturally, as soon as he formed that naïve, hopeful thought, things started to go badly.

And by _badly_ , of course, he meant _quickly spiraling into the pits of hell with great speed and no brakes._

First, there came the gunshot from behind them, even though Gavroche was fairly certain there had been no one pursuing them just a moment ago.

Second, there came the sound of impact- a bullet finding flesh, and Bahorel’s howl of pain.

Finally, Bahorel stumbled and fell, flinging Gavroche among the bushes and weeds, where his head made contact with a particularly sharp rock and his vision went blurry.

He could hear Bahorel  gasping in pain as he struggled to his feet, and he wanted to tell the guy there was no point. Whoever had shot at them was close enough to aim. They would be upon Gavroche and Bahorel  within seconds, and Gavroche would have bet his left arm –his crappy, bent-out-of-shape left arm, that whoever it was had reinforcements, either with them or on the way.

But Bahorel, stupid, stubborn person that he was, got all the way onto his feet. He swayed slightly, then tromped over to retrieve Gavroche, and they set off again.

As Bahorel  jogged and Gavroche bounced up and down, he tried to ask the brawler where he’d been shot, but Bahorel  either didn’t hear him or was choosing to ignore him.

Probably the second. Bahorel  _hated_ revealing weakness. He said it made him feel weak, which Gavroche understood. Weaknesses could get you killed. He knew that.

But if Bahorel continued at this rate, a rate that would have been taxing on a normal person, one who _hadn't_ just broken out of prison and was weak and malnourished and had just been shot, he would run himself right into his own grave.

Because Bahorel  was all four of those things.

Then again, the sooner they got out of here, the better. Their pursuer, the one that had shot at them, was quite far behind for having such good aim, and he didn’t seem to be gaining on them, which Gavroche appreciated. But he wanted to get back to base. He wanted to see Les Amis again. He wanted to go on dangerous missions without his entire life feeling like one.

Bahorel  kept running, covering ground like Gavroche couldn’t believe, what with his long legs and powerful strides and speed. Pretty soon, Gavroche could see the lights of a city, and within another five minutes, they were upon it.

Bahorel ’s breathing had grown more and more labored the longer he ran, and Gavroche was starting to get worried. But they were in the city that Madeleine had described. On the outskirts of this very city was Madeleine’s house, which was safe and contained his daughter and Les Amis.

“Almos’ there,” Gavroche mumbled, and Bahorel grunted in response.

As they passed through the streets of the city, Gavroche noticed that there were very few buildings  still lit, because those were the only buildings still _standing._ The rest had been reduced to ash and debris piles, the more recent ones still smoking.

It was now completely dark and Bahorel  kept tripping. Gavroche wanted to snap at him to stop jarring his already throbbing head, but he just couldn’t find the malice and meanness in his words to form them. Bahorel  was trying as hard as he could. He couldn’t help that it was a bumpy ride.

Gavroche couldn’t hear Bahorel  very well because he was on his back, therefore Bahorel was facing away from him, but he could have sworn Bahorel  murmured something like “There’s the Musain,” as they passed another smoking and decimated neighborhood.

Gavroche looked back, and sure enough, there was what looked like a refrigerator, in a charred mess but still standing, the door swinging open and shut with an eerie creaking noise. The entrance to the Musain, once protected with so many security systems and scanners, now sat wide open, ready for anyone to break in.

They kept moving, but Gavroche’s ears picked something else up, too- footsteps. From behind them. And they’d been going on for quite some time, lost among the creaking of the door and Bahorel ’s heavy treading and both of their heavy breathing.

“Bahorel , behind you,” he managed to croak out, and Bahorel  swung around to face the gun that was aimed right at his chest.

He almost dropped Gavroche again, he could feel it, but he caught himself just in time, which Gavroche was very grateful for.

The gun was in the hands of a government soldier—but he wasn’t a gov-bot. He was human, and his face displayed so much hatred that Gavroche couldn’t blame Bahorel for his (possibly involuntary) step back.

“Put the gun down,” Bahorel  ordered, which ordinarily, would have been enough for any sane person to instantly obey. Bahorel was huge, and ripped from years of boxing, and just one look from his terrifying dark eyes and most people’s willpower crumbled like putty.

But Bahorel  had been running for about two hours now. He was out of breath and wheezing and exhausted, and his fear factor had declined considerably. So instead of dropping the weapon, the soldier just snorted and leveled it.

“Please,” Gavroche tried. If not the intimidation technique, then perhaps one of compassion for a ten-year-old. “Please, mistah. We just gotta get ‘ome.”

“Home?” The soldier sneered. “You mean back to your base, your _headquarters,_ so you can continue to plot to overthrow the good government of this fine country?”

Gavroche considered lying, but  Bahorel  beat him to it. “Yeah, that. Because we’re working for _change._ We’re working to stop the _corruption_ and _tyranny_ of this _fine_ government, so that people will be treated like people again. We’re working to help change life as we all know it, for the better.”

There was something powerful behind Bahorel ’s words- he believed what he was saying with all his heart, and the soldier’s hand wavered on the gun. He might have been convinced. They might get out of this unscathed.

Then there was a bang from somewhere to their left. A bullet went through the soldier’s head, and he dropped to the ground, dead.

Bahorel  took several more steps back, and Gavroche dropped from his back onto his good foot as the killer came into the beam of the streetlight, casually examining his fingernails on one hand and pointing the still-smoking gun at Bahorel  and Gavroche with the other.

Gavroche’s face took on an ugly sneer, because he knew this person. Tall and dark, with a wicked glint in their eyes and a sense of fashion that they _definitely_ hadn't attained legally. Their face had almost feminine features, with bright green eyes and prominent cheekbones and full lips, which were upturned in a cruel smile.

“He was starting to _annoy_ me so,” said Montparnasse, self-appointed leader of Patron-Minette in Thenardier’s absence, leveling the gun at Gavroche’s chest. “Hello, _mon petit gamin._ Having a nice walk?”

***

Combeferre _hated_ feeling useless.

Ever since the video call, where they had learned of Bahorel ’s and Gavroche’s health and plans to escape that very night, he had been absentmindedly tapping away at his laptop, never before having felt so unneeded.

Msr. Madeleine had it all under control, they had said. They would be home tomorrow morning at the latest.

And there was nothing to do to help- no comms units to monitor, no alarm systems to override or hack (they were out of range, anyways, out in the country in Mlle. Fauchelevant’s home), no escape routes to direct.

He was _bored._ And being bored left him alone with his thoughts, which was dangerous.

Well actually, it wasn’t his _thoughts_ that were dangerous so much as his _feelings._

Like, for instance, certain feelings about certain curly-haired best friends of his who had a laugh that was practically _musical_ and a smile that was near blinding. Of _one_ certain friend, who had had a boyfriend but didn’t any longer, but who was obviously still _very much in love_ with said boyfriend and obviously didn’t like Combeferre back, but hey, a guy could dream, right?

Said friend was now lying on the floor, head in Eponine’s lap, humming along to the song she was singing aloud as she braided tiny braids into his short curly hair. When Eponine got to the chorus of the song, Courfeyrac began to sing along, matching their voices and harmonizing beautifully, and _oh yeah, he can sing too._

Combeferre had known Courfeyrac could sing, of course, since they met in the sixth grade and became best friends. Along with Enjolras, they were known as the triumvirate, and they were absolutely inseparable, meaning they spent quite a lot of time at each other’s houses. Not that Combeferre paid attention or anything, but Courfeyrac _loved_ singing, and did so everywhere- while studying, around mouthfuls of food, with accompaniment by his guitar, even in the shower, which had _amazing_ acoustics. Not that Combeferre had noticed.

He totally had.

It was his job to notice, after all, as Courfeyrac’s friend, but over time, he had developed the world’s biggest crush on his best friend and suddenly, all these details just supported the idea that Combeferre was terribly and irreversibly in love with Courfeyrac.

 _This_ was why Combeferre hated being bored and idle. His thoughts that he tried to keep under wraps sprang forth, leaving him confused and aching for something he could never have. Leaving him wondering what a relationship with the world’s biggest romantic would be like. Leaving him thinking of just how soft those rosy, smiling lips would be against his own.

_Oh, now you’ve done it._

He moodily stabbed at the keys of his keyboard, bringing up his search engine and then cancelling it, opening new documents and then closing them, with no reason or purpose behind any of his actions.

_Good job, Ferre._

Because Courfeyrac was in love with Jehan, and like it or not, he probably would be forever, regardless of whether or not the poet was still in the picture.

Combeferre was willing to bet money that he wasn’t even a consideration in Courfeyrac’s mind in the romantic section.

 _You are so, so screwed,_ his mental voice cheerfully informed him.

And Combeferre couldn’t help but agree.

***

_Jehan wanted to stay in the base and look for clues of his team’s whereabouts, but R thought they should keep moving, and insisted upon this by writing it in big black block letters and shoving it into Jehan’s face._

_Every time, Jehan pushed it away. “They must have left a clue as to where they were going, or something…”_

_R didn’t want to crush his hopes and dreams, but he thought it was more likely that the team had just packed everything up and left in a split-second decision, not bothering to leave a note or any clues that could potentially help their enemies find them, and besides---_

Don’t your friends think you’re dead?

_“Well, maybe, I mean, they didn’t exactly execute me publicly, but it could have been implied..” Jehan trailed off, nibbling on his thumbnail._

They wouldn’t have left clues for someone who they didn’t think was coming back

_“I know, but—“_

_But R wasn’t done. He scribbled out another sentence and showed it to Jehan._

AND they wouldn’t want to leave anything too obvious, because the govt could have found and followed it.

_Jehan’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. Let’s go.”_

_As they were making their way to the ladder, however, Jehan must have spotted something, because he leaned down to scoop it up._

_It was a charger to a computer, not a brand new model, but quite recently made, and it had a white sticker on it proclaiming that it was someone named Joly’s._

_“This is Bossuet’s,” Jehan said, running a finger over the  sticker with a fond smile. “Joly always made him hold it because no one trusted his luck enough to let him have an actual electronic device.”_

_He continued to look at the charger, a wistful smile on his face, until R shifted and sighed, and he jumped._

_“Sorry,” he murmured, deploying the ladder and placing his foot on the first rung. “Just… I miss them, is all.”_

_R nodded._ I know.

_“Especially Fey.”_

Is he… _R didn’t write out the rest, unsure of what exactly this mysterious Courfeyrac was to Jehan._

_He nodded, a small smile on his dirty and scraped up face._

_Then he looked down at the charger in his hand and scurried up the ladder without another word._

_When they had both reached the surface, Jehan closed the door of the fridge almost reverently, and then turned to R._

_“We need to find out where they went,” he said, a fiery determination in his eyes. “Because I need to find the love of my life and be able to kiss him again.”_

We’ll find them

_“Damn right we will,” Jehan snapped, but the anger wasn’t directed at R. “We’re going to find them, and I’m going to see Fey again. Soon.”_

***

“Montparnasse, put ‘way th’ gun.”

The serial killer and notorious thief did not put the gun down. He did, however, pull another one out of his belt so that now there was a weapon trained on both Gavroche and Bahorel.

“No, I don’t think I will, Gav,” said Montparnasse, looking at a world of ease, while Gavroche calculated how much damage he would inflict on himself and his friend if one of them charged the criminal.

“So you’s resortin’ to murderin’ people on your own side, now?” he asked. If nothing else, maybe a matter of honor would get the gang leader’s attention.

“Sides? What sides?” laughed Montparnasse. “I know of the side of the corrupt, terrible, law-abiding world, and the side of the cold, hard criminals, killing and looting and burning without discrimination, but you don’t really fall under either of those categories, now do you, _Gav?_ ”

His sister’s nickname for him was like a slap in the face because Montparnasse had _known_ Eponine. Once upon a time, they had been a thing romantically, working together, one of the best pairs of criminals in the country. But then Eponine had met Marius. She had met his group, the group of brave young boys plotting to get rid of the oppressive government, and she had wanted in. So she had turned from her life of crime, and faced instead the life of law-breaking, but for good. For justice.

Montparnasse, obviously, hadn't taken it, or the breakup that had soon followed, well. He now hated Eponine with a burning passion, although on good days, he tolerated Gavroche’s presence without pulling out his gun.

Today was apparently not a good day.

“I don’,” Gavroche agreed. “We ain’t good, an’ we ain’t bad. We’s fightin’ for what’s _righ’_ , even if it takes a coupla wars an’ broken laws an’ ‘ssassinations. So, no, we ain’t on th’ same team, you’re righ’. But we’s against th’ same people, an’ don’ that count fo’ somethin’?”

Montparnasse snorted. “No, Gavroche, I don’t think it does. I think I have every right to kill you _and_ your friend right here, teams and sides be damned, simply for walking into Patron-Minette territory without permission.”

Gavroche’s insides went cold. He had completely forgotten- with  all the caution they had taken to get out of that godforsaken base, the fact that no one trespassed in Patron-Minette’s turf and got out alive had completely slipped his mind. Taught from childhood, engraved into his brain so he would never forget, and he had _forgotten_ , right when it mattered most. No one, _no  one_ went through their part without permission, and sneaking through wouldn’t do you any good, since they had eyes everywhere, and you would be  cornered within a minute.

He looked to the ground, looking for any discernable features to tell him that this was his father’s gang’s land, but with everything desecrated and reduced to rubble, there really weren’t any geographical clues.

“Wha’ if we get outta ‘ere now?” he asked, confidence rapidly slipping. They had come all this way,  just to be stopped by a stupid fashionista with anger issues.

“Mmm…” Montparnasse pretended to consider it. “Nah. It would be more fun to just shoot you.”

And before Gavroche could react, or yell, or do anything, he lowered one of the guns and fired the other. Gavroche flinched, expecting the fiery pain of the bullet right through his heart, expecting to drop dead at any second.

Instead, Bahorel  staggered beside him, made a sound something akin to choking, and crumpled to the dirty ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry
> 
> i know i made it seem like nothing really happened in this chapter
> 
> also that f/b could happen and they could be happy and there would be no more angst
> 
> ...i lied
> 
> forgive me 
> 
> *hides behind kevin*
> 
> -byrd


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which les amis anxiously await the remainder of their family to return home, r and jehan continue their own journey, and cosette makes a killer cake. also feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go. a day late (2 days late? maybe??) anyways
> 
> i've had a crapload of homework and just got home, so that didn't improve my updating schedule any
> 
> sorry
> 
> as always, thank you to the amazing kevin. also thank you to L, who unknowingly inspired me on the bus today
> 
> (less than three, kevin, bae)
> 
> i would like to take this time to apologize in advance for this chapter and any feelings it may cause
> 
> (oh, and thank you to ShippingEverything, who is, as always, the greatest!)
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Thirteen_

Courfeyrac couldn’t sit still.

Granted, he could never sit still, but right now, they were waiting on not one but two friends to return home, one friend previously thought dead, and Cosette expected them to sit down and eat dessert.

 _No, Cosette!_ he wanted to scream. _I don’t care about your angel food cake! One of my best friends, along with an amazing little kid who I thought we killed, is coming and food is not a priority here!_

But Cosette was _terrifying_ when she was mad.

And the cake was like heaven on a plate.

So he didn’t voice such thoughts out loud.

Everyone else was restless, too. Enjolras was completely still and silent, sneaking glances at the clock every ten seconds and solemnly, stoically eating cake in small, dainty bites.

Musichetta seemed very cool and nonchalant, but what gave her away was how frizzy the strand of hair hanging in her face was- she had the nervous habit of braiding that one particular section over and over again, then undoing it again. On either side of her, her boyfriends were exhibiting their nervous habits, too- Joly wrung his hands continuously while Bossuet bit his nails. Or rather, he bit his nails until Joly smacked his hand away from his mouth (“that is _unsanitary,_ Boss!”). Then he played with the stress ball that his boyfriend shoved into his hands.

Marius didn’t seem all that out of the ordinary- then again, Pontmercy was like a ball of nervous energy twenty-four seven. Now, he was playing with his fork, alternating between picking cake crumbs off his plate and sneaking not-so-subtle glances at Cosette.

Cosette looked very cool and  collected, like she got news like this every day. Then again, her father went out on these missions frequently. She was probably used to the anxiety of waiting for a loved one to come home.

Courfeyrac himself was pretending to eat the cake while he snuck looks at Combeferre, marveling at how calm he was remaining, eating his cake like nothing was wrong. In the light of Cosette’s chandelier, his face was covered in odd shadows that, in Courfeyrac’s unbiased, humble opinion, made him look gorgeous and mysterious.

But maybe that was just him.

The truth was, Courfeyrac still felt slightly guilty for thinking his best friend attractive when he’d lost Jehan so recently. Every time he noticed how nice Combeferre looked, or how intelligent he sounded, or how many times a day he wondered what exactly Combeferre’s lips would taste like, feel like against his own, he felt a pang of guilt and shame.

He’d _just_ lost Jehan a few days ago, and he was already moving on. He felt like a terrible person.

 _But,_ he reminded himself, Jehan was _dead._ As much as he hated to think about it, it was true. And death was irreversible.

Jehan wasn’t coming back. But Combeferre was right here beside him, the stupid gorgeous genius who was _way_ out of Courfeyrac’s league.

But, hey, a guy could hope, right?

And speaking of unattainable crushes, Feuilly was sitting across from him, in a state of near hysteria. His best friend and boxing partner (and something more, Courfeyrac figured, from their very dramatic ending of a call yesterday,) was returning by tomorrow morning at the latest, and now he seemed to not know what to do with himself. The normally level-headed ginger was stabbing his cake with his fork, head resting on his other hand.

Really, Courfeyrac had called it. Bahorel  and Feuilly had been head-over-heels for each other since they’d met each other in the fifth grade, although they hadn't met the rest of the Amis until the eighth. Courfeyrac, as the humble love expert, had cleverly deduced that they were a couple when they had met the Amis, and they had both gone the color of Feuilly’s hair and protested strongly.

Well, neither of them had seemed _unhappy_ about the possibility. So Courfeyrac had kept an eye on the two sneaky buggers, hoping to catch them doing something romantic and yell _I TOLD YOU SO_ like the mature young adult he was.

But then he had forgotten, in lieu of his own relationship with Jehan, which had started in the eleventh grade and had stretched through their first two years of college, plus one more year after the world had ended, all the way up to a few days ago, when they had learned that Jehan was dead.

Now, however, since it was the end of the civilized government and all, Courfeyrac had been hoping they would pull their shit together and become a couple finally.

No such luck. The most romantic thing that had happened was Feuilly going into a state of shock when he thought Bahorel  had been killed. He assured Courf, who had asked, of course he had asked, that it was purely platonic, a missing of a best friend.

 _Platonic,_ his ass. They liked each other, and it didn’t take a genius to see.

Now, Feuilly was acting like a nervous wreck, adding to the case that he _really_ liked his best friend.

 _When Bahorel  gets here_ , thought Courfeyrac, _Feuilly will stop freaking out because he will be here and they can finally get their crap together. All of this can be resolved_.

When Bahorel returned, Courfeyrac might just kiss him.

Or he could leave that bit to Feuilly. Either way.

***

Gavroche was in shock.

Bahorel  was _untouchable._ He’d sustained a bullet –probably to the back, although Gavroche was unsure—on the way here and had _gotten back up and continued running,_ with a sixty-pound boy on his back, no less. He’d busted out of government prison. He was a boxer, a brawler, and he didn’t take shit from anyone. He was in amazing physical condition, despite his few days with little to no food, and he should have met Death head-on in the face, fighting a shark with dynamite strapped to himself and the ground underneath him on fire, or something equally awesome and badass.

He should _not_ have met his end by a temperamental brat with territorial problems.

“Wha’ did y’ do,” Gavroche whispered, still too shocked to say anything.

Montparnasse dramatically blew the smoke off his handgun. “Oh, nothing much, _mon petit._ Just took out one of the world’s most wanted revolutionaries. I should take his body back to the government, see how much money I’m offered for it.”

In spite of the fact that his blood had reached boiling point and he wanted nothing more than to wring Montparnasse’s neck, Gavroche found it in him to agree with him. _Just smile and nod, and he’ll leave._ “They’d kill y’ befo’ y’ could set foot inside th’ doors. In case it had slipped _yer_ mind, pea-brain, y’ also happen t’ be one of th’ mos’ wan’ed criminals  in th’ world.”

“Ah, but  isn’t it _nice_ to have  street creds?” asked Montparnasse, casually putting the gun back in his belt and raising the other so that it was once more pointing at Gavroche. “Everywhere I go, people know my name. When something goes wrong, they blame it on—well. Nowadays, they’re blaming everything on Les Amis,” he spat the name like it was an insult, “but  it used to be, if something went wrong, everyone would go, ‘oh, must have  been Patron-Minette!’”

His gun hand didn’t waver or shake or anything, and Gavroche figured he had maybe until the end of this conversation to make peace with his  maker before Montparnasse  got bored, or annoyed, or just wanted to see his old boss’ kid hit the dust at last.

Montparnasse was sick like that, and had been since Gavroche had met him long, long ago. He was the type of child who tortured bugs and small animals just because he “wanted to see what kinds of noises they made.” By the time he was twelve, he had killed someone—a neighborhood brute who was quite fond of calling him nasty names. Now, at the age of late twenties, he had a record over a mile long of thousands of murders and maimings. And not even all of them were enemies. Most were innocents who Montparnasse had been curious as to see what they would look like without a certain limb, or dead on the ground.

He was beyond mean. Even in the world of criminals and druggies and screw-ups, Montparnasse was a bad person. He was cruel and malicious without reason. Even Thenardier usually had a reason for his crimes.

And he had just shot Gavroche’s friend through the heart.

“Yeah, _street creds_ ,” Gavroche spat. “Did you have any reason to shoot him?”

“Not really.” At least he was honest.

Gavroche couldn’t think straight. He was about to be shot, just like Bahorel , all because Montparnasse was a sick and twisted ass. He didn’t want to die like that.

When he died, he wanted it to mean something.

Because he was a Thenardier.

And Thenardiers didn’t die quietly.

So he faced the gun with a silent dignity and  a solemn oath to himself to come back as a ghost and haunt Montparnasse until the end of his slimy days.

And he waited for the gunshot that would end his life.

***

_After leaving the base, R wanted to keep moving, and Jehan didn’t argue, seeing as it was now long since dark and they could barely see. They set off carefully, picking their way around the smoking piles of what used to be buildings, until they reached the road and R froze._

_Jehan didn’t seem to see what was going  on in the street, so R grabbed his arm and pointed._

_Standing in the road, barely visible through the smoke and falling ash and darkness, were three figures, one tall and thin, another huge and burly, the third tiny, maybe a child. The tall one had two guns out and was aiming them right at the other two._

_Jehan gasped. “We have to help!” he whispered._

_R shook his head vigorously. He didn’t have time to take out his paper and pen, so he just continued shaking his head, which did frustratingly little for Jehan’s willpower._

_“I won’t let them be shot, R!” he cried. “Come on, let’s go! With four of us, we should be able to overpower that one person.”_

That is, unless we save the pair’s lives and then they turn on us, _R thought. But he didn’t say anything, nor did he make a move to write it down. Some things were left  unsaid—and unwritten._

_So he followed his companion towards the trio, but when they were less than a hundred yards away, the tall one seemed to lose patience and fired one of the guns._

_Jehan’s horrified “No!’ was lost in the resounding echo of the gunshot, and the immediate protests of the child- for they could now see that it was, indeed, a little boy, probably around ten or eleven, but looking closer to seven or eight due to the severe malnourishment of his entire body. This kid had been through a lot._

_R held out a hand to stop Jehan- the armed man still hadn’t seen the two of them, and R wanted to keep it that way. He led Jehan around so that the gunman’s back was to them, and so that he couldn’t see the pair of them approaching, and together they snuck forward._

_The boy seemed to be trying to negotiate with the man, and he was quite the persuasive little creature, because even R started to see his side of the story more clearly, but the other man obviously wasn’t convinced. He cocked his second gun and pointed it straight at the boy, and the child stood up a bit  taller, fearless in the face of his own death._

_R admired his courage, but he wasn’t about to let a child die on his watch, so he got right up behind the gunman and punched him hard in the back of the head._

_The man fell, and the boy looked startled for a moment before blinking up at R and Jehan, who had come up behind and was ensuring that the gunman was out cold. His eyes were bright and very blue in the light of the streetlight._

_“Y’ jus’ punched Montparnasse in th’ head,” the  boy murmured, looking quite in awe._

_“Yes, he did,” Jehan said with a smile. “What’s your name,_ mon petit _?”_

_Instantly, R knew something was wrong. The boy’s face went stony and cold, and he hesitated only a second before sprinting away into the darkness._

_“Wait!” Jehan called, but the boy either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. They watched him run until he was only a slight shadow. Then he vanished completely, without either R nor Jehan having made any move to go and get him._

_“He made his own choice, I suppose,” Jehan muttered to himself, looking a bit down._

_R just put a hand on his shoulder and pulled out his notepad, flipping to something he’d written a while ago._

We need to get moving. Come on.

_“You’re right,” Jehan  agreed. “Is he…?”_

_He gestured to the man on the ground, making a point not to look at him._

_R knelt and checked the man’s pulse. Or he tried to. It was nonexistent._

_The man was gone._

_He stood and shook his head, and Jehan sighed heavily, like he’d been expecting it, but the news wasn’t any easier to hear._

_“Let’s go, then,” he said, still not looking at the body of the man._

_He set off at a brisk jog, with R right on his heels._

_***_

Gavroche felt slightly guilty for leaving his rescuers behind.

They could have been lost. Maybe they needed directions. And they _had_ just saved his life.

What did he do? He ran off as soon as the smaller one had used Montparnasse’s old pet name for him, like the coward he was. He had also just left  the body of his friend behind, but then again, there was a limited number of things he could have done. He wasn’t strong enough to even drag Bahorel to Les Amis’ headquarters. Maybe one of the Amis would help him later, come back out here and carry their friend to a proper grave.

Maybe Feuilly could do it. He was pretty strong.

And suddenly Gavroche was thinking of Feuilly, and how, in a very short time, he himself would have to break the news to Feuilly that his best friend and possibly future romantic partner was dead. For the  second time in  a week, Feuilly would have to deal with the knowledge that Bahorel  was dead, only this time, there were witnesses. They hadn't simply stunned him. Bahorel  was really and truly gone.

 _This wasn’t supposed to happen,_ Gavroche thought angrily as he ran. _Bahorel  was supposed to come home to Feuilly, and they were finally supposed to get their shit together. They would admit their stupid feelings, kiss like the idiots they are, and finally have it all together._

_Bahorel  was supposed to make it home._

_This is all my fault._

He poured on the speed, making it out into the country in record time, guilt pounding in his head and making it hard to think straight. He didn’t want to just show up and break down, though, so he formed a kind of speech in his head, an obituary to the brave man without whom Gavroche would still be stuck at the government base.

By the time he’d reached the huge white house, porch lights glowing welcomingly in the dark of night, his mental speech was almost complete, and he was rather proud of himself, thinking he had gotten a lot of the major points he wanted to make.

But when he tentatively knocked on the door and Feuilly, _of all people of course it had to be him_ , swung the door open _much too quickly,_ expecting his best friend, Gavroche couldn’t help it.

Thenardiers didn’t cry. They didn’t show weakness, and sacrifices were all a part of this vicious cycle of life here. Thenardiers didn’t cry.

 _To hell with that,_ Gavroche thought, standing in the doorway, unable to look Feuilly in the eyes as the tears came.

***

Feuilly couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t wait for an explanation, or an apology, or any other empty words that wouldn’t have meant shit to him. All he asked was, “Where is he?”

When Gavroche paused sucking in a shaky breath of air through his tears, Feuilly lost patience with the boy and stepped closer, using his height and muscles as a fear factor.

“Where is Bahorel ?”

“If y’re tryin’ t’ scare me,” Gavroche said with a hiccup, “there ain’t no need. I been scared way too much t’night, thanks very much.”

“Where. Is. My. Friend?” Feuilly gritted his teeth.

Gavroche pointed behind him. “I couldn’ lift th’ body, Feu. I tried, swear I did, but ‘e’s too ‘eavy.”

What little hope Feuilly had had left of Bahorel  simply lagging behind Gavroche dissipated like smoke, and cold ice settled into his veins.

“Where is he?”

“Back ‘ere. I can show y’, if y’ want, but--”

Feuilly didn’t wait for the rest. He had already squeezed past the boy, into the night, where he broke into a dead sprint in the  direction Gavroche had pointed.

His worn boots slapped against the pavement as he ran, echoing off debris piles and probably alerting everyone in the area to Feuilly’s presence.

 _Let them come,_ Feuilly thought. _My best friend and only person I truly romantically loved in this world is dead. Let them know I’m here._

He stopped at every abnormally shaped piece of metal or shadow, wondering each time whether he was about to look upon Bahorel’s corpse, but none of them turned out to be  so.

Finally, he reached an intersection in the road, where  a massive form was lying, and he knew with a horrifying certainty that it was Bahorel .

“Oh, Rel…” he  whispered, kneeling beside his friend and gently pushing him onto his back so that he faced up towards the sky. “What have you done to yourself?”

He rested his head on Bahorel ’s chest, where he so often found the steady beat of his best friend’s heart, a reassurance after a long day or a nasty nightmare. Now it was empty and dead, with no resounding  beat thrumming through Bahorel ’s body straight into Feuilly’s ear, assuring and calming. No sound, steady and sure, no pulse, which Feuilly often felt when he grabbed his wrists while they were boxing.

And it was all so hopeless and so terrible that for the second time that week, Feuilly found tears making silent tracks down his cheeks, dripping onto his friend.

And oh, how he wished Bahorel  were still around to wipe the drops off his shirt, to hold his best friend tightly until the sadness passed and Feuilly had calmed down.

But this empty husk of a corpse lying on the dusty ground, this shell of what Bahorel  had used to be, this _body_ , this _was_ his best friend in the world. This was Bahorel , and as much as Feuilly hated it, he was dead.

And death was irreversible.

He sniffled and sat up, looking his best friend in the eyes as he did so.

“I loved you, you idiot,” he said, laughing weakly through his tears. “I wanted so badly for you to love me back. Did you? Could we have worked this out?”

Bahorel’s body gave no response.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day you dragged me behind the gym in seventh grade,” Feuilly admitted, and kissed Bahorel gently on the cheek, then on the lips, then once more on the cheek.

“I loved you,” he said again, pulling his head back and gripping Bahorel ’s cold and lifeless hand in his own. “I still do, actually. Probably will forever.”

He sighed deeply and rested his forehead on Bahorel ’s. “Let’s go home, Rel,” he said, and stood. Using energy he didn’t know he possessed, he hoisted his best friend, his boxing partner, his love, onto his back

and started for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch my soul hurt while writing this
> 
> here, have a sad angsty scene with half your otp dead and the other half mourning them
> 
> A FEW FRIENDLY REMINDERS FOR Y'ALL--
> 
> -r doesnt realize that gavroche is the kid who was in prison with him  
> -jehan DOESN'T LOOK AT THE BODY ON THE GROUND, so he has absolutely no idea that bahorel is dead  
> -jehan also thinks that the amis are expecting him to return  
> -when in reality, they think he's dead  
> -and courf is falling for someone else  
> -also feuilly, level-headed, good-in-crises-feuilly, had been reduced to a husk because of his best friend's death, for real this time  
> -also, our favorite serial killer and dream crusher is not dead  
> -we could be seeing more of him later
> 
> -you're welcome
> 
> ~this has been a service provided to you by me~
> 
> sorry SO SOrRY if feuilly was completely and terribly OOC... kinda went crazy with that scene
> 
> i'm presenting my japan project tomorrow can i get a wootwoot
> 
> bojangles fries are bae, but not at midnight
> 
> love ya kevin
> 
> -byrd


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which feelings are felt, talks are talked, and the (completely uneducated in the business of doctory stuff) author pretends she knows more than she actually does (shh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have no fear, byrd is here- i have returned from my few day break
> 
> this chapter.... ugh. this chapter has given me issues
> 
> i've deleted it t h r e e s e p e r a t e t i m e s and edited it like six but you know what
> 
> you know what
> 
> i'm sick of looking at it so i'm going to post it bc i need to move on with the story
> 
> so this chapter is not terribly exciting
> 
> sorry
> 
> on the bright side, the weekend is coming and i will be able to update again soon! good news!
> 
> without further ado, here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Fourteen_

Cosette’s house went deadly quiet after the door slammed behind Feuilly.

Gavroche stood in the hallway, silent tears trailing down his face as he furiously tried to wipe them away. Everyone else, who had either been sitting in the living room or in the connected dining room, sat in various states of shock, still processing what had just happened.

No  one made any move to go after Feuilly, which Courfeyrac guessed was fair. He needed a moment with Bahorel, alone, before the rest of them did. It was only fair, and very sweet and sad, and he only wished he had gotten this opportunity with Jehan. As it was, his love’s body was probably gone, buried in some mass government grave right now.

Courfeyrac realized he had a hand clapped over his mouth and removed it, looking around as his friends as he did so. In the armchair by the window, Enjolras’ gaze was downcast, his position hunched and defeated, and a single tear caught the light of the lamp as it made its way down his face. Beside him on the loveseat, Combeferre’s eyes were closed, and he looked more sad than Courfeyrac had ever seen him, making the urge to go hug him and bury his face in Combeferre’s soft sweater even more appealing.

Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet were all sitting at the dining room table, where they had been laughing and talking, but not anymore. As soon as Feuilly had opened the door and it had become clear that Bahorel  wasn’t there, all three of them had adopted identical expressions of horror, and their clasped hands now seemed to serve as a lifeline for each of them to hold to avoid drowning in despair.

Eponine had run to Gavroche’s side immediately, enveloping  him in a tight hug, but now she was hanging back, wiping her own tears away before tending to her brother’s. Cosette’s pretty face was very sad-looking, and for once, Marius’ gaze was not on her but on the door Feuilly had just gone through.

Courfeyrac was going to go insane if he remained on his couch all alone, so he thought, _screw this and screw whatever consequences may come of it_ , and moved to be  with Combeferre on the loveseat.

Combeferre moved aside slightly to allow room for him, and Courfeyrac gladly accepted this space, flopping down beside his friend and leaning his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. Almost mechanically, as if he hadn't had to really think about it, Combeferre’s arm moved so that it was around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, his hand was gently stroking Courfeyrac’s arm.

Suddenly, Courfeyrac found it very hard to think. Wherever Combeferre’s warm fingers made contact with his skin, small fires seemed to blaze to life, sending shockwaves through his whole body.

“I didn’ mean to.”

Gavroche had finally regained his voice, having finished crying, and was now glaring at the room as a whole.

“I didn’ mean t’ leave ‘im, y’ know. I couldn’ lift ‘im, though, and I figured you’d want m’ safe…”

He suddenly looked doubtful, as if questioning his life against the safety of a teammate’s body.

Eponine lightly touched his shoulder. “Of course we wanted you to come back. But… what happened?”

“Montparnasse,” Gavroche said, and everyone snapped to attention. The name of the current leader of Patron-Minette was enough to make anyone listen, especially if he had been involved in Bahorel ’s death.

“He…” Gavroche, the master of words, king of comebacks, looked as though he didn’t know what to say. “We walks righ’ intah Patron Minette’s terr’tory, righ’? Cause I wasn’ thinkin’. An’ Mont, ‘e corners us, righ’? ‘E talks crap fo’ a few minutes, an’ then ‘e… ‘E shoots Bahorel. An’ ‘e turns ‘is gun on me. Figured I were dead.”

Silence, as the Amis waited for Gavroche to continue. When it was clear he wasn’t about to say anything else, Eponine asked softly, “What happened? Did he…”

Courfeyrac saw it in her eyes; she had almost said _miss._ But everyone knew that Montparnasse never missed his target. If Gavroche had been what he was aiming for and had gotten away, nothing short of a miracle must have occurred.

“Someone saved me,” Gavroche looked like he was trying to recall the details. “Hit ‘Parnasse in th’ back o’ th’ head, an’ he fell. Saw m’ chance an’ ran. Didn’ even thank ‘em.” He sighed.

“Who?” Enjolras asked, raising his eyes from the arm of the chair. “Who would take out Montparnasse and then let you run free?”

The doubt in his voice was so evident that Courfeyrac could see Gavroche’s hackles beginning to rise. He didn’t want to have to deal with any fights tonight, so he stepped in.

“Oh, I don’t know, Enj. Maybe a _good guy?_ There _are_ still some of those left in the  world, you know.”

Bossuet nodded. “Could’ve been a passing good Samaritan. Did you see what they looked like?”

“Yeah, it was two of ‘em. One guy an’… maybe ‘nother guy. Maybe not. But only th’ second one spoke.”

“That narrows it down,” Enjolras groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

“The important thing,” Combeferre said, now tracing circles on Courfeyrac’s arm and _oh,_ that did _terrible wonderful things_ to Courfeyrac’s mind. “Is that you’re alright.”

Even as he said it, Courfeyrac thought Gavroche looked terrible. Bahorel  had mentioned on the video call that Gavroche had a broken arm, a sprained ankle, and a bruised, possibly broken rib. Sure enough, the evidence was right before their eyes. The kid  had sprinted all the way here, literally running for his life, and now his right foot was hanging awkwardly. He was leaning against the wall with his right arm, and his left arm dangled uselessly at his side, a sharp white bone fragment sticking out sharply at the elbow. _Definitely_ broken, and Courfeyrac was just grateful none of them were squeamish.

The kid was exhausted and emotionally drained, and suddenly Courfeyrac didn’t think Gavroche looked alright at all.

Joly seemed to agree with him. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said, rising from his chair at the table just as Gavroche collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Eponine and Cosette, who were closest, lifted the boy onto Courfeyrac’s recently vacated couch, and Joly rushed over to check his pulse.

“He’s alright,” Joly assured Eponine, who had begun hammering him with questions over his shoulder as he checked Gavroche’s vitals. “Just tired. And extremely malnourished. And he needs to have these broken bones repaired.”

Musichetta frowned. “Who will do that for us?” she asked. “I’m sure all our doctor allies are gone.”

 _Gone_ meaning  dead, or locked up for life, or about to be dead, and all for allying with Les Amis.

Joly bit his lip. “I mean… I know how to do it.”

No one disagreed. He had been training to be a doctor, after all. But suddenly _training_ was a drastic word. He wasn’t completely qualified yet. They called him “doctor” jokingly, because he was a whiz with first aid, always knowing exactly what to do, but in a real situation like this, where Gavroche’s limbs could be  permanently damaged if he did this incorrectly?

Courfeyrac held his breath, waiting for the verdict from Eponine, who was Gavroche’s unofficial guardian.

“If you’re sure you can fix him,” she finally said.

Joly exhaled. “Right. Boss, get my backpack. All my medical supplies should be in there. Cosette, I’m going to need a bedsheet that you don’t care about. Eponine, if you would move the patient to the dining room table _after_ Chetta disinfects it with the blue spray Cosette will help her find. Courf and Enj, you watch the door, make sure no one unwanted comes in during this procedure, although it shouldn’t take but ten minutes tops, and Ferre, I need your medical guidance. Marius, don’t look.”

Instantly, everyone sprang into action, knowing better than to argue with Joly when he was in Doctor Mode. Musichetta wiped down the table and Cosette laid the sheet down like a tablecloth. Eponine carefully set her brother down on the table, and Bossuet dutifully set the backpack on the table beside him Combeferre got up to go supervise, and Courfeyrac mourned the loss of his warm body heat beside him, but he followed orders and watched out the window for any intruders. Enjolras somewhat reluctantly put down his phone and watched the other window. Marius obediently went into the corner `and closed his eyes.

The fixing of the ankle was over in a matter of minutes, but even from across the room, Courfeyrac could hear Marius’ whimper as Gavroche’s bone was set back in place with a sickening _pop_. Then Joly moved onto Gavroche’s arm, which was much worse and definitely needed stitches, and Courfeyrac could tell his dear friend was about to pass out. So he swooped in and took Marius out onto the porch while Joly finished up.

“T-thanks,” Marius stammered, wringing his hands  nervously, once they were outside and out of earshot of the doctoring going on.

“No problem.” To be honest, Courfeyrac had needed to get out of there, too.

“I just… I don’t like dislocated stuff.”

“I know, Pontmercy.”

“Or medical procedures.”

“I know.”

“Or needles.”

“I know.”

“Or small children.”

“Okay, Marius.”

They stood in silence for a minute or so, until Marius whispered, “Do you think they’re done now?”

“I’m sure Joly will call us back in.” Courfeyrac examined his fingernails.

A year ago, Courfeyrac would have  known what to say. He would have used his way with words to keep the mood light, maybe crack a few jokes to make Marius smile and forget about his worries.

Now, with two members of their team confirmed dead and another going through hell on the dining room table in there, he was at an utter loss for words. Things were just going so _terribly,_ and nothing seemed to be working out in their favor.

He wanted things to go back to the way they had been before the government collapsed, before the gov-bots invaded and shipped everyone off to different places and bombed the empty neighborhoods, before the revolutionaries and gangs and criminals and rebels had been forced to go into hiding, or be blown to bits. He wanted his old life back, where he lived at uni and attended classes and went to Les Amis meetings every night. He wanted to have Marius as a roommate once more, and go to movies on the weekend and eat junk from the fast food place around the corner from his dorm room.

He wanted to be _normal_ again.

But that clearly wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. For one, the system of the government and civilian life was in shambles. It would take years, if not more, to put it back together again, and that was assuming the revolutionaries banded together and won against the sheer massiveness that was the gov-bot army. Which was highly unlikely, and definitely wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Combeferre appeared in the doorway and beckoned them inside, and Courfeyrac tried to pretend like his heart didn’t do backflips when he caught sight of him.

Yet another thing that had changed. If the government crash hadn't happened, Jehan wouldn’t be dead. Courfeyrac would still be happily attached at the hip to his adoring boyfriend, and he wouldn’t have eyes for anyone else, meaning that this _stupid_ crush wouldn’t exist.

But hey, it was technically the end of the civilized world, right? Anything could happen.

***

Feuilly returned about an hour later.

There was no huge greeting, no begging to tell the tale of his adventure out, no congratulations on a job well done, as they did with most missions.

In fact, there was very little noise at all as he walked in the door, only his own heavy breathing and Eponine, of all people, rising to give him a hug.

“He’s in the backyard,” was all Feuilly said, and then he vanished upstairs to bed.

They all agreed that they would deal with the body of their friend in the morning, and shortly after, Cosette retired to her bedroom. Next went Marius, followed by Musichetta and her boys, and Eponine, after making sure Gavroche was alright in the extra room, went downstairs to the basement to be alone for a while.

Courfeyrac settled on the couch between Enjolras and Combeferre and acted like he was interested in what Enjolras was typing when really, he was just wondering what drastic measures had to be taken for Combeferre to put his arm around him again.

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, just basking in each other’s presence. The triumvirate had been known in college for being constantly together, no  member seen without the other two within shouting distance. And it was true. Courfeyrac loved the closeness they had, the bond they shared that was unlike anything any of the others had. They were more than friends, and some days, Courfeyrac swore they were more than family, too.

 _Family._ That was a concept he hadn't considered in a long, long time, at least not his blood relatives. He had always kind of assumed that his mother and sister were killed in the initial bombings of the country. He had been at uni, so he was safe, but so many people lost their lives during  those first bombings, and it had wiped out several hundred square miles of civilian neighborhoods. It was only a week or so before everyone had cleared out of the college, too, to rush home to loved ones that weren’t there any longer, in houses that were no longer standing.

Once they arrived home to find most of it destroyed, save for a few cities the government preserved for various reasons, they were instructed to relocate and find new homes in other places, designated civilian areas the government had set aside solely for this purpose. These new places were uniform, trim, neat, and strictly guarded and regulated by gov-bots.

Not that Courfeyrac would know. As soon as the first bombs fell and all of the students at their college began to leave, Les Amis promised to meet up again and continue their group in secret.

And they had. The original nine members of Les Amis met and went into hiding as the government evacuated the rest of the country. For some time, their number hadn't changed. Then Joly and Bossuet brought their girlfriend, and Marius brought in Eponine.

Then they had lost Eponine, lost Jehan and Bahorel , gained Gavroche, regained Eponine, lost Gavroche, regained both him and Bahorel , gained Cosette, and lost Bahorel  again.

Courfeyrac personally hoped that their numbers didn’t decline again anytime soon. He couldn’t take any more sadness.

“We’re going to have to bury Bahorel  tomorrow,” Enjolras said suddenly. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre turned to look at him.

“Don’t glare at me like that, Courf, you know I’m right. We can’t just leave a body out in the open for anyone to stumble across… because then those people ask unwanted questions, we get reported, and we’re forced to move again. And we can’t do that to Cosette.”

Courfeyrac hadn't even thought about that, but if they did get caught, Cosette and her father would be in huge trouble for harboring rebels. Their house would be destroyed, all their possessions taken from them, and they would be killed or shipped off to prison.

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Combeferre agreed quietly. Smart guy, that Ferre was.

“I don’t want to bury him,” Courfeyrac whispered, and he sounded like a child, but he didn’t care. “Putting him in the  ground would be making it final, and I don’t want to…”

“Have to say good-bye,”  Combeferre agreed. “But we have to, Courf. If anyone finds him-”

“There’ll be hell to pay. I understand that. But I also understand that we are not ready to call him  dead. A few hours ago, he was still alive in our minds, and we were awaiting his return. We were excited to see him again. _Feuilly_ was excited to see him again, and I’d bet my life on the fact that they were finally going to work things out. Now they can’t. Feuilly isn’t ready to put his best friend in the ground.”

“Work things out?” Combeferre asked. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac just stared at him because _he could not have seriously missed  the tension between Bahorel  and Feuilly._ “Are you serious?”

Combeferre just looked at him blankly.

Courfeyrac looked, astonished, to Enjolras, hoping for back-up, but Enjolras’ face was just as confused.

“What are you talking about, Courf?” he asked.

Courfeyrac laughed incredulously. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve _missed_ it…”

When this earned him two concerned glances, he just about cried. “Your two friends, your two teammates, _whatever_ , they liked each other. A lot. Have for a while, actually. But they were _finally_ going to pull their crap together and _talk_ to each other about it, because Feuilly realized he could lose Bahorel  again at any moment, and Bahorel  realized he could die at any moment, and they were probably going to kiss and then marry and when all this shit is over, move to a small suburban neighborhood and have three-point-five kids.”

“Three-point-five is not a rational number for children. You can’t have half a child,” Enjolras muttered, almost as a reflex, because then he frowned. “What the _hell_ are you talking about? Feuilly never said anything about this. Wouldn’t he have told someone?”

“Feuilly doesn’t tell people things. It’s an issue; we’re working on it. But no, he didn’t tell anyone, especially not Bahorel , and now the love of his life is gone and he’s gone into some state of shock and now they will never be happy.”

Here Courfeyrac paused for a breath, and Combeferre asked, “Why wouldn’t he have told anyone? Why would he put himself through that?”

“Fear.” Courfeyrac suddenly found it hard to meet Combeferre’s eyes. “Of getting rejected. Of losing his best friend in the world. Of shattering whatever friendship they had, all for some gushy romantic feelings.”

Enjolras snorted. “If what you’re saying is true and they _both_ loved the other back, then why were they so afraid to talk about it? Didn’t they realize they loved each other?”

“Sometimes it can be hard to tell.” Courfeyrac studied the grey lining of the couch. “Sometimes we think people like us back, but it’s really only our hopeful crush deducing things all wrong. And sometimes… Sometimes….”

“Sometimes we don’t notice that they like us, when they really do, because we _think_ it’s just our crush making guesses,” Combeferre finished, and suddenly Courfeyrac thought that the couch had never been so fascinating.

Anything to keep him from having to look his friend in the eye.

Enjolras looked back and forth between the two of them with a quizzical expression, but bless his soul, he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he said, “So you think Feuilly and Bahorel … loved each other?”

“I do,” Courfeyrac murmured, tracing the seam of the couch with his finger. “But it doesn’t matter now. Bahorel ’s gone.”

None of them spoke for a while after that ominous statement, which Courfeyrac found he appreciated. No words of encouragement would work now, no empty promises would magically bring Bahorel  back and solve all their problems.

The fact was, sometimes their situation was crappy, and there was nothing they could do about it. Sometimes they lost friends, and sometimes what they were fighting for, what was _right_ , wasn’t the popular opinion, and wasn’t the easiest. Often, Les Amis fought their fights alone, with no one to back them up and no one to help them, and that was just how it was.

Finally, Combeferre stood and told them he was going to bed. Courfeyrac watched him all the way up the stairs, trying to be discreet about it, but obviously failing, because once Combeferre was gone, Enjolras turned to him with that same weird expression.

“What?”  Courfeyrac asked, feigning innocence. Denial. Denial was always a safe option.

“Nothing. I just… Nothing.” Enjolras shook his head as he closed his laptop. He looked like he wanted to say something else, and Courfeyrac braced himself for confrontation on his obvious crush on Combeferre, but all the blond said was, “Just… sometimes you can be a real idiot, is all.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” But Enjolras had already stood. The conversation was clearly over.

After Enjolras had disappeared up the stairs, as well, Courfeyrac leaned back into the couch and sighed. Tomorrow was not going to be fun. They would have to bury a dear friend and then figure out what to do next.

What _were_ they going to do next? Courfeyrac wondered, as he so often did, what their ulterior motive was here. What was their end goal?

He had jokingly asked Enjolras once whether they were planning on overthrowing the government, and  Enjolras had very solemnly replied that yes, they were, just as soon as they had the opportunity and ability to do so. At the time, they had all believed him. Of course they had. Enjolras could talk a beggar out of his last loaf of bread.

But now?

Courfeyrac was just wondering how nine college kids and a ten-year-old were going to take on the government and _win._ Because losing was clearly not an option here. Jehan and Bahorel  had taught them that much.

Tomorrow, they would need everyone awake to help with planning, and he needed sleep, but he didn’t feel like moving, so he just snuggled deeper into the couch cushions and tried to think of happier things as he dozed off to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize to any of you who wanted a chapter with action- that will come soon, i promise
> 
> to any of you out there who are doctors/know doctory things/do doctory things:
> 
> i'm so, so sorry for the completely inaccurate medical procedures practiced in this fanfic. i truly am. google can only get you so far. 
> 
> thank you to the school cafe, for keeping me caffeinated 
> 
> thank you to the employee at said cafe, who now knows my regular order AND the name to put on the cup (well i am QUITE unforgettable after all)
> 
> (jk)
> 
> (i just go there every. single. day.)
> 
> (it's becoming an obsession)
> 
> much thanks to kevin, who is the greatest support a girl could wish for (less than three, bae)
> 
> ALSO much thanks to shippingeverything, who is so sweet and whose comments are the bright light of my day, and who is the most wonderful reader and follower and encouragement (also, i stalked your tumblr. sorry not really sorry. <3)
> 
> i'm going to get some much-needed sleep and pretend i don't have an hour of homework waiting for me tomorrow 
> 
> after all, in the wise words of courfeyrac, denial is always good. 
> 
> -byrd


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which you wish you had the bromance that is eponine & feuilly, ferre and courf are idiots, and there is a therapy session

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooooo i have returned, friends
> 
> this chapter is kinda... ?? meh??
> 
> ...not my best
> 
> but i need to move on so
> 
> as always, much thanks to kevin, my bae  
> (WHO WON"T BE ABLE TO TXT ME FOR A WEEK HOW WILL I EVER SURVIVE)
> 
> ... i still love you (less than three)
> 
> and thank you so so much to the amazing ShippingEverything (who may or may not have inadvertently and unknowingly gotten me obsessed with SA screw you) (Jk love you awesome person)
> 
> ALSO MAJOR TW IN THIS CHAPTER- TORTURE 
> 
> its a flashback, but better safe than sorry
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Fifteen_

While the rest of the house slept, Eponine turned on a light in the basement and thought.

The place had once been a dance studio; Cosette had mentioned she had done ballet, and  the evidence was clear once the light was on and she could see the wooden floor covered in tape markings and the mirror taking up three entire walls.

Great. Eponine could watch herself mope from all angles.

She sat against the non-mirrored wall and studied her reflection. She looked wild- hair falling out of its braid, eyes bright and insane, skin marred from her time in the interrogation room.

 _Don’t think about that,_ she chided herself. But it was too late. Suddenly, mental images and flashbacks came rushing back to her, making her tense up against the wall and freeze.

_The way the gov-bot had smiled, cruel and mean, as he leaned over the table towards her, like he knew something she didn’t. The constant questions that they must have known she’d never answer. The terror of seeing the wall lined with sharp objects for them to play with._

_The pain._

_The brutal pain as they cut her with knives. The agonizing pounding of her head as they hit her head against the table or with their guns again and again. The terror coursing through her bloodstream when they told her how they weren’t intending to kill her- not now, not anytime soon._

_They laughed as she screamed. They took delight in her pain._

_Sick bastards._

Eponine shook her head frantically, trying to clear her thoughts. She didn’t need to be thinking of this here, in the dark, with no one around to comfort her. She needed to think happy thoughts.

When the government had finished their fun, they threw her in  a cell to rot for half a year, and the only way to keep from going absolutely loony was to think of good things. Happy things, that, although not numerous, were a bright spot in the shithole  that was her life.

Things like her siblings, and the few good moments she had had with them. Things like Marius and his adorable puppy-like qualities. Things like her team, the Friends, who were fighting against these bastards, against all the shit she was going through.

Happy things.

So in the basement of Cosette’s home, she tried her old method, but it kept backfiring. Thinking of Marius only reminded her of Cosette, and how they  were a literal Disney couple. Thinking of her siblings made her think of the fact that Azelma had disappeared along with her mother once Thenardier had been imprisoned, Pierre and Raq were stuck in the foster care system somewhere, and Gavroche might  be on death’s door at this very instant. Thinking of Les Amis reminded her painfully of Jehan, and Bahorel, and all those other prisoners who were currently trapped in cells, awaiting their deaths.

Prisoners like the one she had shared an interrogation session with. She had only taken note of him because he looked to be about her age, with wild inky hair, bloodshot eyes that hinted of a withdrawal from something- possibly alcohol, and a troublemaker’s sly grin as he was led  in.

Of course, he hadn't been smiling when the gov-bot  had shot him in the hand, and he hadn’t even had the faintest hint of one when they held the knife up to his throat and pressed hard enough to draw blood.

Eponine hadn’t been able to watch; she couldn’t. But she could still hear his agonized screams in her dreams, sometimes, and she had never forgotten those bright blue eyes.

None of the other prisoners she had been tortured with had made such an impression on her, but all of them had  been older, trying to be macho up until their breaking point, which for some, wasn’t until the bullet found their brain. This boy hadn't been like that. He had smiled, yes, but it had been bitter and melancholy- the smile of a cynic.

The smile of someone who had already given up. And  that made her sad.

 _Don’t you know we’re fighting for you?_ she wanted to yell. _People, all people, even doubters like you!_

Her case might have been more convincing if the gov-bots hadn't been screaming in his ear, too, asking him about Les Amis when Eponine knew for a fact that he had never been a part or even an ally of her group.

He had passed out twelve minutes in. Eponine hadn't been watching. She had heard his head hit the table and the gov-bot laugh, and she had wanted nothing more than to shoot the bot in the face.

 _Don’t think about it,_ Eponine told herself, leaning her head back against the studio mirror and trying desperately to think of something else. _Think happy._

That prisoner was probably dead. They had probably killed him.

That didn’t help her  mood.

She brought up her legs so she was curled in a ball, and rested her forehead on her knee. She needed to get a grip. She’d been in some trouble for a  while, yes, but everyone in their group had gone through something rough over the past year.

 At least she was still alive, which couldn’t be said for Jehan or Bahorel. Or that prisoner, the cynic.

At least she wasn’t irreparably injured, which couldn’t be said for half the prisoners who’d made it out of there. Which might not be able to be  said for Gavroche, who, if he didn’t heal up, Joly fretted, could lose his arm. After all, Joly wasn’t certified yet. He knew what he was doing, more so than everyone else, at any rate, but he still wasn’t a professional. He had done his best, which was all that could be asked of him, but sometimes even their best efforts weren’t enough.

She sighed heavily. Her happy-thoughts game wasn’t working.

A shuffling on the stairs made her lift her head from its position resting on her knee, and she looked up just in time to see Feuilly step off the last stair. When he saw her, he froze.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know anyone else was… I’ll go.”

“No, stay,” Eponine said, patting the floor next to her. If it had been anyone else, she might have let them leave, but Feuilly was pretty  cool. And besides, he was the one with whom she could relate the best to right now.

Feuilly blinked. “Are you—are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. After all, misery loves company,” she said.

“That it does,” he amended, walking over to the mirrored wall, pressing his back against it, and sliding down so that he was sitting next to Eponine.

They sat in silence for a moment, just enjoying the other’s presence, until Feuilly sighed and put his head on his knee, in the same position Eponine had been in a minute before.

“What’s up?” Stupid question. They both knew what was up.

“What are you, my therapist?” But there was no malice in Feuilly’s tone. In fact, he sounded weary and tired, which scared her. Feuilly was tireless, able to run on a coffee and less than an hour of sleep, and even when he was about to drop from exhaustion, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show weakness.

Which reminded her of the Thenardier code, and suddenly she had a mental image of a very scary red-headed child growing up on the streets, but instead of turning to a life of crime, as the Thenardiers had, he used his skills for good, to get an education and several jobs and a scholarship to college, working himself past the breaking point for most normal people, but he’d never been normal. He was special because he was dedicated to everything he put his mind to.

“Yeah, that’s me. Teen-angst therapist. What can I do for you?”

He smiled, which she considered an accomplishment, and said, “Well, doctor, you see, there’s this guy.”

Eponine knew where this conversation was going, but she played along anyways. “Ooh, a gu-uy? What’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s amazing. You’d love him. He’s got this terrifying exterior, like ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll mess you the hell up,’ but inside, he’s really a giant teddy bear. Heart of gold. Defender of the weak. The whole package.”

“The whole package indeed,” Eponine said, giving him a Look.

“Hey. No dirty jokes during therapy sessions.”

“Even if the sessions are complete bull anyways?”

“Even then.”

“Sorry. Go on?” Eponine found that she actually _wanted_ to hear Feuilly gush about Bahorel , which was odd, since most of the time, other people’s relationships made her want to gag herself with a spoon. Maybe it was the fact that Feuilly was such a down-to-earth person, and he rarely got excited about anything.

“So we’ve known each other since we were, like,  ten, and he’s been my best friend since. We did  everything together- even applied to and went to the same college, joined the same revolutionary group. And then the world ended.”

He laughed nervously. “Technically, the world didn’t _end._ The  rest of the world is probably fine. But this country, it’s gone to hell. It’s completely deserted except for the various government bases and … us. The gangs. The revolutionaries. The rebels.”

Eponine nodded. She knew all of this, of course, but  therapist’s jobs were to listen and not to interrupt. She was starting to see the difficulty in dealing with angsty bullshit all day, every day, and slowly began to gain some respect for therapists.

“So we went into hiding, our group did, and I ended up sharing a bunk with this guy. And he… I … well, I’d suspected I had a crush on him since the seventh grade.”

“Ooh, what happened in the seventh grade?” Eponine asked, sounding for all the world like a gossipy old woman.

Feuilly hesitated. “Is it really necessary?”

“Absolutely. I have to know all the facts to form a professional therapisty opinion.”

“I’m not sure therapisty is a word.”

“Bullcrap. It’s totally a word. So _spill._ What made you realize you were head-over-heels for Bahorel ?”

“I never mentioned any names,” Feuilly protested weakly, and Eponine snorted.

But all she did was bat her eyelashes and say innocently, “Did I say Bahorel? I meant _unnamed individual._ Tell me how you fell for this _unnamed individual,_ whom I have _no living idea_ of their identity.”

Feuilly seemed to give up. “Yes, it’s Bahorel. In the seventh grade… He pulled me behind the gym after school and kissed me.”

“Oooooh,” Eponine cooed. “Tongue?”

“ _Eponine!_ ”

“Is that a no?” she asked, almost too sweetly. “How long did this kiss last, and did you enjoy it?”

“Eponiiiiiine…” Feuilly groaned, tilting his head back so that it hit the mirror.

“Tell me, and we can move on.” Maybe this was bribery. Probably was. She couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“No tongue, we were, like, _twelve,_ for God’s sake. It lasted like five seconds, tops. And… yes. Yes, I thoroughly enjoyed it _now can we please move on?”_

“Sorry.” Eponine wasn’t sorry at all. This was the most fun thing to happen in half a year. “So you kiss behind the gym, all of a sudden you have a crush. What now?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing?”_

“Nothing. For five, six more years, nothing except pathetic pining. For God’s sake, he _slept in the bed right next to mine_ , and all I could think of was that stupid middle school kiss, and _Lord_ I sound freaking pathetic.”

“Not really,” admitted Eponine. “Considering I used to like Pontmercy and would gush to my diary about the exact shade of his eyes. _Like grass strewn with morning dew._ I needed serious psychological help.”

“A diary, eh? And where might such a rare species of Eponine’s Possessions would this specimen be found?”

“I burned it two months after the end of the world,” she said, laughing at his disappointed expression. “Sorry, dude. No evidence of this girl pining over a guy, sorry.”

“Drat. That would have been major blackmail material,” he grumbled.

“So Bahorel,” she pressed. “Nothing but pining for six years?”

“Pretty much.” Feuilly picked at a splinter in the floor. “I thought we were finally going to get it together…”

Eponine had no idea what to say because suddenly, the conversation had taken a sharp turn from joking about teenage Eponine with a diary to the topic of Bahorel’s death.

“Feuilly…” she  said, voice wavering. She cleared her throat. She was _not_ going to lose it now. “I think you would’ve, yeah. And then you would have kissed.”

“It would have been a marvelous kiss,” Feuilly relented.

“A truly amazing one.” Eponine bumped shoulders with him. “One with _tongue._ ”

“Oh my _God,_ ” Feuilly moaned, burying his face in his hands once more. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never. That’s my job,” she said, grinning. “Teen angst therapist, at your service.”

He laughed out loud, and Eponine noticed how drastically the mood in the studio had changed. At first, it had been dismal, two miserable people basking in each other’s sadness. Now they were laughing their heads off at stupid jokes, smiling despite all the day’s problems.

Eponine felt warm and happy and _safe._ She felt safe with Feuilly, her amazing friend who she could relate to more than anyone else, and she never wanted this secure feeling to end.

But eventually, much to her annoyance, Feuilly pushed off the wall and stood.

“Where are you going?” she whined. “Is our session over?”

He laughed. “I’ve got to get to bed or I’ll be a dead man walking in the morning, so yeah, Ponine, it’s over.”

Eponine had hated it when Courfeyrac had jokingly called her “Ponine,” when Gavroche was still in government captivity and it was unclear whether or not he was alive. She had shut the rest of the conversation after his joking nickname because that was Gav’s name for her, and no one else had the rights to it when he was gone.

But now that Gavroche was safe… she supposed she didn’t mind if Feuilly called her Ponine. It was an affectionate, brotherly pet name, and hadn't Feuilly always been like a big brother to all of them?

So she just smiled, and rather than correcting the nickname, reached out her arms and groaned, “Help me up.”

Feuilly grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet, and they made their way up the stairs together. She said good night to him at her floor while he kept climbing, all the way up to the attic.

He’d been offered a downstairs room, and he’d been assured that they could readjust and move Gavroche so that the extra room was empty, but he’d declined. Said he wanted to be alone. Said it helped him think.  Eponine could _definitely_ relate.

After checking on her little brother one more time, she crept into the room she shared with Musichetta and, with a start, realized that they had forgotten to put down a mattress on the ground. She would be  sharing a bed with Musichetta. At least it was her best friend, and not someone else, but still, Eponine was _not_ fun to sleep with. She kicked and thrashed and often carried on whole conversations in her sleep, and she was a blanket hog.

Still, the hard carpet wasn’t an option, so she climbed into bed beside her friend, still in her clothes from that day, and tried not to think about what the morning would bring.

***

_“This way,” Jehan was saying. “Come on, R, it’s this way, I’m sure of it!”_

_R sighed. This was about the eighth time they had had this conversation. Each time, Jehan insisted they were getting closer to where the Amis were currently hiding out,  and each time they really weren’t._

Again?

_“No, no, this time I’m sure of it. So they’re smart, right? My friends. They’re smart?”_

Pretty sure we’d established that, but idk.

_“Don’t be an ass,” Jehan snapped, and wrung his hands, almost tripping over a bent metal piece of … something in his concentration. “I think they went out into the country.”_

What? Why?

 _“Because,” Jehan said, making it sound obvious. “They wouldn’t hide in the city; there’s just about nothing left. And they have to have_ some _allies left, but their allies aren’t idiots, either, so they wouldn’t be  hiding in the city, either. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that they are in the country.”_

 _R rolled his eyes and scribbled out,_ Genius.

_Jehan swatted him on the arm and said, “Well, unless you have any better ideas…”_

_R sighed, and made a gesture with his hands like,_ lead the way.

***

Mornings were the most despicable thing known to mankind, Courfeyrac reasoned.

It had to be earlier than seven when he awoke to the sound of the coffeemaker starting up, and earlier than seven was, as far as he was concerned, an ungodly hour that was not to be  seen, much less awakened at.

He rolled over, moaning about how this hour should not be legal, and promptly fell off the couch, eliciting an even louder groan, this one of pain.

The noises in the kitchen stopped abruptly, and then, “Courf?”

Of course. _Of freaking course_ it had to be Combeferre in the kitchen, because this goddamn _crush_ would not leave Courfeyrac alone.

“Don’t mind me,” he called. “Just dying over here.”

Combeferre appeared in the doorway. “Don’t joke about that,” he chided, but there was a smile on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I hate my life and everything about it,” Courfeyrac mumbled into the ground.

“I’m having a sudden sense of déjà vu,” Combeferre said, vanishing into the kitchen and returning with two mugs of coffee. He offered one to Courfeyrac, who  sat up to accept it.

“Did you sleep on the couch?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac nodded. “Couldn’t make myself get up, and this thing is freaking _comfy._ ”

“Understandable,” Combeferre said, and laughed, and _oh,_ Courfeyrac loved his laugh.  He loved his smile. He loved every single detail about his best friend, including the fact that Ferre was a saint in the mornings, complete with coffee and sympathetic responses.

And he needed to stop that train of thought before it went any further. He felt like a broken record, looping over and over again the reasons why a) Courfeyrac was a heartless human being for ditching Jehan so soon after his death, and b) Combeferre would never want him back.

And every time he reminded himself of this, he thought he was set. His crush was over. Then the man in question would walk into the room and all of a sudden, Courfeyrac would notice things about him that he’d never noticed before- and they’d be back to square one all over again.

Combeferre, unaware of the thoughts currently plaguing Courfeyrac’s mind, was watching him with those intense brown eyes, and it wasn’t making it any easier for Courfeyrac to concentrate.

He wondered, not for the first time, what Combeferre would do if he kissed him.

Would he pull back, alarmed, and start apologizing, but no, he wasn’t into Courfeyrac like that? Because Courfeyrac knew, sure as hell, that Combeferre would turn him down nicely. It was part of his nature.

Or would he kiss him back, bury a hand in Courfeyrac’s curls and _pull_ , leaving Courfeyrac gasping for air and causing them to have to stop kissing, but only for a second, before—

Courfeyrac couldn’t deal with this. Not now.

He jumped up from the ground. “I need to—I have to go. Now.” He moved around the couch  and up the stairs, not even sure where he was going, just knowing that he had to get away from Combeferre and his _stupidly_ gorgeous eyes and Courf’s own fantasies of kissing him.

He found his way into his and Marius’ room, where Marius was still asleep on the floor. He’d left Courfeyrac the bed, and Courfeyrac hadn't even been around to accept it.

 _Some friend I am,_ he thought gloomily. _I start developing feelings for one of them, and I completely take advantage of another…_

He climbed onto the bed  and curled into a ball, willing  his thoughts  about Combeferre to go away.

***

Downstairs on the couch, Combeferre sat in silence.

Courfeyrac had just gotten up and  _left the room_ for no good reason other than that he _had to._

Was Combeferre really that terrible to be around?

No, more  likely, he told himself, Courfeyrac had picked up on Combeferre’s _completely obvious_ staring at him in adoration and had gotten uncomfortable. A while ago, Eponine had pulled him aside and told him that he wasn’t being subtle, and he had sworn to himself he would tone it down, _for God’s sake he’s not interested if he hasn’t picked up on it already,_ but apparently he had failed at the whole “toning it down” bit.

But Courfeyrac was just _so cute_ when he was tired and grumpy, and he made Combeferre want to wrap him up and kiss his head at his pure adorableness.

He had been seriously considering kissing Courfeyrac a few minutes ago, but he was terrified of how he would respond. Rejection would mean losing the best friend Combeferre had ever had, and potentially splitting up the triumvirate.

He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be responsible for that kind of pain, and all because he couldn’t control a crush.

He leaned back into the cushions of the couch. He’d wanted to kiss Courfeyrac, had made it _obvious_ that he wanted to kiss Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac had fled.

 _There’s your answer,_ he thought, and sipped his coffee with a kind of resigned, melancholy silence, waiting for the sun to come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams loudly* YOU ALL ARE IDIOTS JUST KISS ALREADY CRIPES 
> 
> eponine & feuilly bromance gives me life u^u
> 
> so i have come to the shocking conclusion that i am a T E R R I B L E fanfic reader and half the time forget to comment on fics
> 
> so if i have ever kudosed a work of yours, be patient. i'm going back through my bookmarks and history (backwards bc i'm a flippin idiot) and commenting on most of nt all of them
> 
> yeah
> 
> the last like four sentences of this fic were written while watching newsies (again cripes i'm obsessed) so if they seem disjointed and like i was distracted:
> 
> 1) they are
> 
> 2) i was
> 
> but anywayssss thanks so much to everyone who has kudosed/commented/been amazing!
> 
> *sends internet hug*
> 
> -byrd


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which eponine goes into the therapy business, the author hastily tries to patch up some plot holes, and 11:45 at night is not when she is at her most literate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo
> 
> so i've been working on this chapter way too much and am sick of it so even though i am not completely satisfied with it
> 
> *shoves fic at you* here take it i want nothing to do with it
> 
> as always, thanks are in order for kevin, my biggest supporter and put-upper of the madness that is my mind
> 
> and thank you to the lovely ShippingEverything, who makes me smile with their sweetness
> 
> warning for one brief mentioning of torture- gav is telling eponine how they broke his arm
> 
> ALSO i stopped italicizing r and jehan's pov- there is literally no point anymore, since we know who they are and stuff
> 
> yeah
> 
> also a big unthank you (is that a thing? that should be a thing) to autocorrect, who kept trying to change feuilly's name to pie lily.
> 
> *squints at computer screen*
> 
> pie lily?
> 
> pie lily.
> 
> ok, autocorrect. whatever you say, man
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Sixteen_

They were almost there, Jehan could sense  it.

He had a feeling, deep in his gut, that his friends were still alive, and hiding someplace out of government range, but still close enough to keep an  eye on the enemy. The only logical explanation was underground or in the country, and since all of the buildings that could have housed underground rebel bases were currently in ruins, the country seemed the only option.

So now he was dragging poor R along with him through the mess that used to be a major city, picking their way through debris and desecrated buildings.

When they finally reached the dirt road leading out of the city, R stopped Jehan with a hand to the arm and showed him something he must have written while they were walking, because the letters were disjointed and shaky.

_Break?_

Jehan nodded, and R collapsed into a sitting position on the dusty, ashy road, breathing hard.

He didn’t mean to be unsympathetic, but Jehan really didn’t have time for ten-minute breaks anymore. The love of his life was close, and he was practically vibrating with the anticipation of seeing Fey again, of holding him tight, of kissing him, of finally feeling his lover’s warmth again.

The thought brought on an involuntary smile, and encouraged him to go even  faster.

“We’ve got to go,” he said to R. “I’ve got to see Fey again, soon.”

R made a hand gesture like, _give me a second_. Then he breathed in deeply and stood, stowing his notepad in the waistband of his pants once more, and they set off.

***

By the time the rest of the house awoke, Combeferre was completely up, knocking back the last dregs of his coffee as small groups found their way into the kitchen for some much-needed caffeine.

Feuilly came down first, with dark bags under his eyes from no sleep, but when Combeferre tried to suggest he go back to sleep, Feuilly actually _hissed_ at him, and Combeferre let it go, watching the ginger brew coffee like it was second-nature, an automatic impulse for his hands to do. And with all the jobs Feuilly worked, maybe it was. Maybe caffeine and a prayer were all that was keeping the guy going.

Cosette was next, and she had the good sense to start up breakfast so that it would be ready in time for the others when they awoke.

“It’s not much,” she sighed, looking at the bowl of mixed fruit and the leftover eggs and bacon from a meal earlier in the week, “but  this whole government-ending thing restricted the electricity. Now we only get so much per day.”

Combeferre was suddenly hyper-aware of how much lamplight he and Courfeyrac had used last night while they were up talking. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t realize…”

Cosette laughed, a bright, musical sound that seemed to fill the kitchen. “You’re fine, Combeferre. And you are, too,” she added, looking to Feuilly, who had guiltily frozen with his hand halfway to the fruit bowl. “The basement runs on a generator, so you’re alright.”

Feuilly’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Ponine and I were up late last night, or early this morning, I suppose, talking, and I might have left the light on.”

“You and Eponine?” Cosette asked, an amused expression on her face.

“Yeah, she’s the one with the dark hair--” Combeferre began, but Cosette cut him off.

“I know who  she is. She used to be my foster sister. But you…” And here she turned back to Feuilly. “You two have been really subtle about your relationship.”

Feuilly snorted. “Mostly because I’m as straight a rainbow and she’s currently getting over another guy.”

“Oh.” Combeferre could have sworn Cosette’s face had fallen. “You mean you aren’t together?”

Feuilly pointed to himself. “Straight. As. A rainbow,” he repeated, emphasizing every word. “Besides, I like someone else.”

“Who likes who now?” Courfeyrac had appeared in the doorway.

“We’re talking about Feuilly,” said Cosette.

“Oh, then Bahorel. The one in the video call,” Courfeyrac said, coming into the kitchen. Combeferre tried to meet his eye, but he seemed to be intentionally avoiding his gaze.

“I see.” Cosette’s face fell a bit further. She didn’t say _the one that died._ She didn’t have to.

“I do not- I mean, I--” Feuilly spluttered, an apple halfway to his mouth. “I don’t _like_ Bahorel !”

“Are you actually trying to _deny_ it?” Courfeyrac laughed incredulously, reaching around him for a banana. “Dude, you’ve been sweet on each other since we _met_ you two, Don’t even go to that shit about _oh we’re just friends_ , because I swear to God I will hit you with this banana.”

Cosette coughed. “I expect that sounded better in your head.”

“Probably.” Courfeyrac didn’t even look fazed. “But no, I won’t hear this crap. You _like_ him. _Love_ him. Don’t even argue.”

Feuilly obeyed, going back to his apple, possibly intimidated by Courfeyrac’s threatening tone, or maybe the banana that he was waving menacingly at Feuilly’s face.

The next group to find their way into the kitchen was Joly, Bossuet, and Enjolras, the latter of which immediately made himself a cup of coffee. Joly led his boyfriend to the first aid kit for a bleeding cut on his arm that no one was stupid enough to ask about. Knowing Bossuet and his notorious bad luck, it was safer to just fix it and let it go.

As the kitchen became more and more crowded, people started to grab plates of breakfast and migrate into the dining and living rooms. Courfeyrac was the last to enter the living room, and, as fate would have it, the only seat left was on the loveseat next to Combeferre.

Combeferre tried to ignore the betrayal and hurt he  felt and instead returned his attention to his eggs.

Courfeyrac wasn’t interested in him romantically, and he respected that. It stunk, but he understood, and didn’t try to press the matter.

Now, he thought, screw romance. I’ll deal with this one-sided love for a hundred years if I can have  my best friend back.

***

Eponine nearly cried when she saw that her brother’s eyes  were open.

When Gavroche had stumbled over the threshold of Cosette’s home, minus Bahorel, and looking pretty busted up, Eponine had feared the worst. She had had sudden visions of her brother getting shot, and dragging himself home with his final efforts before dying at her feet, or of a fatal wound that even Joly wouldn’t be able to fix.

A broken arm wasn’t _that_ bad. Granted, it was a fairly nasty break, but Joly had seemed optimistic.

Or, as optimistic as the worrisome ex-med student got.

Now, as she opened the spare bedroom door and saw Gavroche’s eyes open and alert, she came close to tears.

“Gav, holy _shit_ ,” she  whispered, and ran to his bedside to hug him before realizing that hugging a stitched-up, busted-up boy was not good. She settled for squeezing his hand instead, and felt the reassuring pressure as he squeezed back.

“’Ey,” he murmured.

Joly came around to  his other side and began taking his temperature pulse, muttering to himself as he did  so. Eponine turned back to her brother.

“How are you?”

“Shitty.”

“Language, Gav,” but then she felt like a hypocrite, given that she had said the same word not ten seconds ago, and changed the subject. “Seriously. What hurts?”

“Arm. ‘Ead. Mouth.”

“Mouth?” Joly looked concerned. “What about your mouth hurts?”

“Feels like… like cott’nballs is stuffed in ‘ere,” Gavroche said, and his words were accented with a weak cough.

“Maybe it’s dry mouth,” said Joly, wringing his hands nervously, his medical procedures forgotten. “Maybe the infection has spread. Maybe your salivular tubes have malfunctioned. Maybe-”

“Maybe he just needs some water,” suggested Eponine. “Would you go get him some?”

“Water. Yes. On it,” Joly promised, already halfway to the door.

Once he was gone, Eponine turned and smoothed Gavroche’s hair away from  his eyes. “So your arm hurts. That’s to be expected, seeing as you literally have medical thread holding it together right now. How’d it happen?”

He flinched, and Eponine instantly felt bad. Drawing up painful memories was something she especially should have been aware of, and she’d gone and dredged up several with just one question.

 _Dammit, Eponine,_ she chided herself, and opened her mouth to take the question back, when Gavroche spoke.

“’Ey threw me on th’ ground an’ stomped on m’ arm ‘till I screamed,” he said, voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “I told m’self I weren’t gonna yell, but then I saw m’ arm an’ it was bloody an’ I could see th’ bone… ‘m sorry, Ponine.”

He sounded ashamed, like it was his fault he’d given the gov-bots what they wanted and screamed, and it made the mother hen instinct in Eponine want to march down to that government base and bust some heads.

But she couldn’t very well do that, so she settled for making a soothing noise and continuing to stroke his hair. “No, Gav. You did fine. You did just fine. You did nothing wrong.”

“But I didn’ tell ‘em no secrets,” Gavroche said, quietly, as though confiding a deep confession. “I didn’ tell ‘em nothin’, Ponine, I swear it.”

At this point, the mother hen inside her was threatening mass murder on anyone who  _dared_ to touch her precious brother. She sighed.

“Gavroche,” she said gently. “I know  you wouldn’t ever reveal anything you weren’t supposed to. You did amazing with the opportunity you were given. The opportunity you were thrust into. Whichever. But now…” She looked into his bright blue eyes, so unlike her chocolate ones. “Now you’re safe. And I won’t let anyone touch you ever again.”

His eyes filled with something bright and promising- hope. And in that moment, he wasn’t the stone-cold badass who had infiltrated a government base multiple times and lived to tell the tale. He wasn’t the urchin who lived on the streets and cared for no one but himself.

He was her little brother, a scared ten-year-old in a world that didn’t know the meaning of mercy. And he had just received reassurance that he had been so afraid to ask for, but that he needed so desperately.

“Promise?” he asked.

“I promise,” she confirmed. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. And no one will ever hurt you again.”

He nodded, and then was silent for a while, apparently lost in thought.

Eponine watched the door for Joly and the water, so when Gavroche spoke again, she jumped.

“We gonna make it through this, Ponine?”

“Through this?”

“This who’ world-endin’ thing. Is we gonna make it through?”

“Of course we are.” But even as she said it, her doubts returned, and with them, the questions she had been so afraid to ask herself.

Like, _what the hell is going to happen to us?_

_Where will this end? And how?_

And most important, _what next?_

She tried to put on a confident face for Gavroche, but at the skeptical look on his face, caved in. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice failing her as tears filled her eyes.

What was she doing? She was a Thenardier. And they didn’t cry. Especially not  in the face of something as simple as tomorrow.

Thenardiers didn’t look to the future, either. It helped them make a lot of bad decisions and was probably also the reason behind the eleven  times her father had gone bankrupt.

Thenardiers also didn’t admit defeat.

“We’ll figure it out, Gav,” she said, in a more confident tone, making herself believe it.

Joly came in with a glass of water and made Gavroche sit up before offering it to him (“You could _choke_ if you try and drink that lying down. _Choke,”_ ), and then, seeming to sense that he had just barged in on a sibling-bonding moment, backed up a bit.

Eponine clasped his hand tightly, then slid off the side of the bed. “You should probably rest now, Gav,” she said, looking to Joly for affirmation.

He nodded. “Sleep will help your arm. Help the healing process. Sleep is good.”

“’M not sleepy,” Gavroche tried to protest around a huge yawn, but Joly wouldn’t hear it.

“Sleep,” he  urged, and as he helped Gavroche into a comfier position, Eponine backed out of the room, feeling useless.

In the hallway, she bumped into Courfeyrac, who looked lost in thought.

“Hey,” she said. He didn’t even look up.

She tried again. “Courf.”

He gave a start and looked up. “Oh, hi, Ponine. What’s up?”

“Apparently a lot. What’s going on with you?”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said, trying for an optimistic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not much.”

“Seriously. What’s wrong?”

He gave up his happy act. “That obvious, huh?”

She laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “ _Very_ obvious. You and Combeferre are about as subtle as elephants.”

His shoulders slumped even further. “I don’t know what to do, Ponine. He’s been acting all weird since this morning, and I don’t know if _I_ did something wrong, or…”

“Well,” Eponine said, putting on her best _I’m listening_ voice. “What exactly happened?”

“He came and brought me coffee on the couch, and we were, I dunno, talking, and all I can think of is how _amazing_ his laugh is, like seriously, it’s gorgeous, and it makes his whole face light up, and—is it possible to be romantically attracted to a laugh?”

“Why not?” Eponine asked. “Continue.”

He groaned. “Are you supposed to be some kind of counselor?”

“Close. I’m a teen angst bullshit therapist, according to Feuilly,” she laughed, and Courfeyrac looked slightly confused, like he wasn’t sure whether he should smile or not.

“I need to hear that story later,” he said, apparently having come to a  conclusion. “Come into my room, it’s more private.”

He led the way into his room, and Eponine was proud of  her willpower, because the way that he had worded that sentence opened _thousands_ of opportunities for her to make a dirty joke. She could have, but she didn’t.

She was quite pleased with her amount of self-restraint in times of crisis.

Courfeyrac sat on the bed and patted the space beside him for Eponine to join him.

“So what happened?” she asked again.

“Nothing,” he admitted. “Just, I thought about kissing him, and how he would react, and what it would feel like, and I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I ran away.”

“How dramatic,” Eponine said flatly. “You do realize that he probably thinks this is _his_ fault, don’t you? You literally fled the scene after _nothing_ happened.”

“Oh my God,” Courfeyrac mumbled. “He probably thinks this is _his_ fault.”

“Is that not what I just--”

“Ponine!” he cried, jumping up and grabbing her arm excitedly. “He thinks this is _his_ fault! I’ve got to go tell him it isn’t! Oh my God holy crap I have  to, um… I have to go and say sorry, and then…”

“And then you two make up and are best friends again,” Eponine finished. “Go get ‘em, Courf.”

He was already halfway out the door.

Feuilly, who was passing by on his way up to his attic alcove to get dressed, laughed.

“Back in business, doc?” he asked with an amused expression.

“You’d better believe  it,” Eponine said, rising from Courfeyrac’s bed. “Although that might have been the shortest therapy session I’ve ever run.”

“He already knew the problem,” Feuilly reasoned, as she joined him in the hall. “He just needed assurance that he was doing the right thing.”

Eponine bumped shoulders with him as they began walking down the hall. “Maybe you should take over my post. You seem to be doing a better job of it.”

He laughed, and they parted ways, Eponine to go downstairs and Feuilly to go to his room.

Back in the living room, Courfeyrac and Combeferre were nowhere to be found. Perhaps they were making out in a closet somewhere, Eponine hoped, but she doubted it.

Enjolras was draining his last bits of coffee hungrily, like it was the last cup he would ever drink. Beside him on the couch sat Musichetta, and at her feet, on the ground, was Bossuet, who was receiving a scalp massage from his girlfriend. Cosette could be  heard moving about in the kitchen, so no doubt Marius was somewhere close by, spying on the girl under the pretense of being helpful.

Eponine plopped down into the armchair. “What’s the plan, team?”

Enjolras tipped his mug upside down to ensure that there was truly none left, then, with a disappointed expression on his face, turned to Eponine.

“Now?” he asked, like he was unsure. He turned to his left, as if to address Combeferre, before apparently remembering his right-hand man was absent.

“I-I don’t know,” he admitted. “I suppose we keep an eye on the government and any recent movements of theirs. We definitely need to contact our remaining allies, if we have any left, and see what their plans are.” His  voice gradually grew in strength as he spoke, becoming more and more confident. “Eventually, the plan is to take out the governemtn, but we’re going to need an army to do that, not a ragtag bunch of students.”

“Ex-students,” Bossuet mused. “They bombed the college last week. We officially no longer go to West Uni.”

With that depressing note, the room went silent once more, until Enjolras a=said quietly, “We’ll wait for everyone to be in here. Then we’ll make a plan.”

***

When Courfeyrac had said, “We need to talk,” Combeferre had gotten slightly nervous.

When he had dragged Combeferre out onto the front porch, Combeferre had gotten anxious.

And now, he was standing there, watching Combeferre through those amazing hazel eyes, and Combeferre was getting ready to panic. Or flee. Or scream.

Finally, Combeferre couldn’t stand the silence anymore, and said, “What?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac stammered out, dropping his gaze to their feet. “For running away this morning. I just- I misinterpreted things, I think, and I was scared, and-”

“Wait. _You_ misinterpreted things? What did you—oh.” Combeferre suddenly understood. “ _Oh._ You saw that I was about to kiss you, and you got uncomfortable, I get it, it’s fine, really.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped back up to Combeferre’s and Combeferre tried his hardest not to flinch, but those hazel eyes were terrifying.

And gorgeous.

But that wasn’t the point. Combeferre was _done_ thinking of Courfeyrac in a romantic way, crush or no crush, because it was making his best friend uncomfortable, and that was the last thing Combeferre wanted.

“What did you say?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice barely a murmur.

“Um, it’s fine that it made you uncomfortable and I won’t try to kiss you again?”

“No, no, not that part. Wait, yes, that part. You were about to- to _kiss_ me?”

Combeferre laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he flitted his gaze around, meeting anywhere but Courfeyrac’s eyes. “Yes, Courf. I thought that was obvious. Isn’t that why you ran away?”

“No, I ran away because I was scared I was about to kiss _you,_ and I couldn’t handle the rejection,” Courfeyrac said, sounding slightly doubtful now, like he wasn’t sure himself.

“Rejection? And Since when have you liked me?” Combeferre asked incredulously.

“Since when have _I_ —Combeferre, I’ve had the biggest crush on you since, like, forever!”

“What? No you haven’t. You’ve had Jehan since, what, the eleventh grade?”

“Yes,” agreed Courfeyrac. “And I loved him dearly, but there was a part of me who still loved _you_ , Ferre. You and your nerdy teacher sweaters and your crazy love for books and your stupid _eyes_ that melt my freaking heart and your hair and your gorgeous _face_ and those lips, holy shit those lips, that smile, I love your smile! You’re so _amazing_ and you don’t even see it, Ferre.”

And suddenly Combeferre was _very_ aware of how close Courfeyrac had gotten. “But I do,” Courf whispered, like it was a deep, dark secret. “I see it every time I look at you, and I _love_ you for it.”

“And what about you?” Combeferre croaked, his voice having suddenly failed him. “What about you and your curly hair that I just want to run my hands through and your _eyes._ Some days they’re blue, some days they’re green, sometimes they’re brown or a mix of all three and they’re intriguing to look at. How about your smile, and those blinding white teeth, and your talent for lighting up any room you walk into? How about the fact that I’ve been in love with you since the eighth grade, but you always had a new partner hanging off your arm, only staying with you for a short time before being replaced by someone new? What about me being jealous of each new person, of Jehan, when you two finally decided to make it official? What about that?”

“God, we’ve been such idiots,” Courfeyrac laughed, and Combeferre thought he had never heard a more beautiful sound in his life. “Dancing around each other, scared of rejection…”

“When  neither of us would have gotten rejected anyways,” Combeferre put in. “Eponine _told_ me I was being too obvious.”

“Knowing Eponine, she probably knew from the start.” Courfeyrac looked thoughtful, and he was now so close that his breath ghosted across Combeferre’s chin, making him shiver.

“All of them probably knew,” Combeferre said.

“All except us,” laughed Courfeyrac. “They all know why we’re out here.”

“To, as Feuilly would put it, ‘get our shit together,’” Combeferre said with a nod. “They think we’re out here kissing.”

“Eponine’s probably got a betting pool going.”

“Eponine’s _definitely_ got a betting pool going.”

“On whether or not we’ll kiss.”

“Want to prove someone right?” Combeferre asked, and Courfeyrac’s lips twitched up in a smirk.

“Depends. Whose wallet _exactly_ are we helping fill right now?”

“Whoever thought we would pull it together,” Combeferre said, and that was all it took for Courfeyrac to grab the front of his shirt and drag him into a kiss.

It was warm and sweet, and tasted slightly of coffee, and Combeferre never wanted it to end. He wanted to stay here on this porch, with Courfeyrac, forever, feeling nothing but the slight pressure of their mouths pressed together until the end of time.

Finally, Courfeyrac pulled back and looked Combeferre in the eyes. “Is this okay?” he asked. “This… thing. Whatever this is. Is this alright?”

Rather than answer, Combeferre pulled him into another kiss.

***

 Jehan could see it; the big white house with no visible neighbors, located on a deserted country road and perfect for rebels on the run.

He figured maybe the Amis had a code so that just anyone couldn’t go walking into the safehouse, but he couldn’t imagine that they would turn _him_ down, not after they’d probably been looking everywhere for him, so he didn’t worry about it.

When they were still several hundred yards away, R held out a hand to stop him.

 _People on the porch,_ he wrote. _Do you know them?_

Jehan had to squint to even make out the figures on the front porch of the home, but he was almost sure that that was Combeferre, his back to them.

Sudden elation filled his lungs so fast that he could hardly breathe. He was in the right place. He was _home,_ and in a few short minutes he would have Fey with him again, to hold, to kiss, to touch for the first time in days.

“Yes,” he whispered, happy tears springing in his eyes. “Yes, I know them. That’s Combeferre, he’s amazing, you’ll love him, and behind him..”

Behind Combeferre was _someone._ Jehan couldn’t see exactly who, but they were very close. Must have been telling each other secrets.

That should have been the _only_ reason hey were so close, because the closer they got, the more and more sure Jehan was that that was _Fey._ His boyfriend was there, now closer than ever, and Jehan almost called out to his partner  and Combeferre but then—

\--he stopped. He wanted to sneak up on them, surprise them with his heroic entrance, and perhaps that was corny, but when was he _ever_ going to get this chance again in his _life?_ So he gestured to R to be quiet ( R rolled his eyes, and Jehan didn’t have to know  sign language to translate his next words as _duh. You think I can shout for joy?_ ), and together, they crept up to the house.

But something wasn’t right. Fey and Combeferre were _much_ too close to be talking, unless they were whispering into each other’s mouths.

And something like dread, icy cold, pooled at the bottom of Jehan’s stomach as they got within a hundred feet of the porch and realized.

They weren’t friends talking on a porch.

They were lovers, kissing in the privacy of outside, possibly because no one else knew.

It _was_ a secret, and Jehan hadn't been let in on it.

And suddenly his world came crashing down around him as he watched his boyfriend and his friend kiss, and he wondered-

What the _hell_ had he missed?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS JUST A PSA I AM NOT A DUDE NOR HAVE I EVER KISSED A DUDE SO I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT EITHER ARE LIKE
> 
> sorry if this sucked
> 
> blame kevin
> 
> jk kevin has nothing to do with my crappy lack of experience.. blame the author 100%
> 
> ok and yeah so i'm going to be going on this big trip in 2 weeks that my parents are being AWESOME and paying for but in return i've got to keep my grades up and so i will def be spending more time on school and less time on this... 
> 
> however if i dont update once in all these two weeks, plz slap me over the internet
> 
> kevin, do it in real life
> 
> yeahhhhhhhhh
> 
> i've got nothin
> 
> time for bed now
> 
> -byrd


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things happen and the author needs to stop trying to be creative at stupid o clock because it clearly isn't working out for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the words of gabe goodman, i'm alive. 
> 
> I HAVE RETURNED my grades are up the sun is shining IM GOING TO SEE NEWSIES ON TUESDAY and life is good
> 
> so here i am
> 
> sorry about this chapter
> 
> not really satisfied, but are writers REALLY ever satisfied with their work????????????no. they are not
> 
> i'm sure it will be fine. 
> 
> hopefully
> 
> but yo i was rosie the riveter for halloween and like three people knew who i was and those three people are my new favs
> 
> i dunno any of their names
> 
> they're just favs now
> 
> a big thank-you to the candy-giver-outers this halloween, who have provided me with an entire pillowcase of candy that i will probably stuff myself with over the next few weeks
> 
> days
> 
> hours???
> 
> as always, a huge thank you to kevin, without whom this stupid fanfiction would not exist
> 
> three hershey bars later, the author decided to get her crap together and finally publish the stupid story that had been staring her in the face since last week
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Seventeen_

There was something strange about how slowly Jehan’s mind seemed to process things after that.

He was vaguely aware of freezing in his tracks, of having R tugging on his sleeve- probably signing or writing or mouthing _What? What’s wrong?_ but Jehan didn’t respond.

 _Couldn’t_ respond.

Because surely, _surely_ , that could not be the love of his life up there on that porch kissing someone else.

Surely he was dreaming. Maybe his fatigue and injuries had finally taken their toll on his brain and he was hallucinating.

But when he rubbed his eyes and looked again, Combeferre and Fey were still connected at the mouth. Still kissing.

And- _no._ he could not deal with this right now. He was finally home, was finally about to be reunited with his team, and he couldn’t stand the thought that Fey had forgotten him, or no longer loved him.

R tapped insistently at his shoulder, and he came to his senses with a jolt.

He might have just had his heart broken, but he was _not_ a simpering princess. He was going to tough this out. Take one for the team, for _his_ team, because as much as he never wanted to see Fey or Combeferre again (because although such thoughts were horrid, he couldn’t very well deny them), he had to push through this. Les Amis  needed their poet back.

Or did they? The idea gave him pause.

 _Did_ Les Amis need him? They certainly hadn't sent out any rescue parties for him. They hadn't tried to contact him at the base, as far as Jehan knew. And they certainly hadn't been the ones to blow up a section of the aboveground base and allow him to escape.

They hadn't thought of him at all, he realized. They had left him for dead, at the mercy  of the gov-bots, while they sat back with their fancy gear and the ability to go rescue him, but no desire to. They didn’t care about him. They had sent him on that mission to _die._

 _Stop,_ Jehan told himself, and tried to keep the negative thoughts at bay. _They didn’t send me out to die. Les Amis care about me. They all do. And I’m sure they tried to contact me and I just didn’t receive it. Maybe it was over my busted comms unit. Maybe it was through an unreliable ally who didn’t make it. And they probably realized the risk of sending out search parties when I had been so recently captured, and decided not to endanger anyone else. I understand that. Let’s not jump to conclusions, now._

Of course, none of this explained why his boyfriend was kissing someone else, and _Combeferre,_ no less.

Jehan wasn’t an idiot. For all the daydreaming and giggling and flowers he proudly embodied, he was also a quiet genius. He often knew what someone was going to say before they said it, and he had a vast knowledge of several classic poets. His bookish knowledge was rivaled only by that of Combeferre, and he considered himself quite a smart person, at least compared to the people he hung out with, who were actually very bright but chose to make stupid decisions.

So, yes, Jehan had picked up on the subtle (and sometimes not so much) hints that Courfeyrac may have once had a thing for Combeferre. They were best friends, after all, and had known each other and Enjolras the longest out of anyone in their group.

And Jehan understood the attraction. Combeferre was certainly good-looking, with brown eyes that seemed to have hundreds of years of wisdom behind them, and his dark hair styled so that it should _not_ have gone with his style of librarian sweaters and glasses, yet _somehow it did._ Combeferre was intelligent, too, and worked well with others. He had a smile that just filled you up with happiness, and when he became passionate about a subject, his eyes twinkled just so.

And he had managed to get Courfeyrac to kiss him. Or vice versa.

Jehan just wanted to know what was going on. How long had they been together? Was Fey cheating on him, or did he not realize that Jehan was stubbornly remaining _in the picture,_ at least for a while?

Did Fey ever really love _him?_ Or was it all just a lead-up to dating Combeferre?

R was looking concerned to the point of worry, and Jehan shook his head.

“That’s Combeferre,” he said again, wincing inwardly at how much his voice shook. He cleared his throat. “And behind him… that’s Courfeyrac.”

Something like recognition dawned in R’s eyes as he looked at the boy on the porch and connected the name to the person Jehan had been talking about non-stop ever since they’d left the base yesterday.

And then confusion, because surely this wonderful boy of whom Jehan had waxed poetic about, describing as a kind-hearted, loving soul, wouldn’t be _kissing someone else._

But Jehan didn’t want to hear it- he’d just gone over all of this in his head, and so when R started to make a gesture with his hands, he stopped him.

Taking a shaky breath, he turned back to the porch. Back to the scene where his nightmare was currently unfolding. Because now Courfeyrac and Combeferre had pulled apart and were hugging each other tightly, foreheads pressed together, no doubt whispering sweet nothings to each other.

It made Jehan want to strangle someone. Maybe Combeferre. Maybe Courfeyrac. Maybe himself.

R shoved the notebook in front of Jehan’s face, forcing him to look at what he’d written. It was a sentence from earlier, only he’d added a question mark, signifying that he was asking.

_We need to get going?_

“Hang on,” Jehan muttered. “I’m thinking.”

Because they certainly couldn’t go waltzing up in the middle of the couple’s special moment, although part of Jehan’s mind seemed to be telling him that revenge was _definitely_ best.

 _This bastard screwed you over,_ the more malicious part of Jehan’s internal monologue whispered. _Now he’s making out with another guy. Why shouldn’t you interrupt?_

 _Because as much as you hate admitting it sometimes, you are still a good person,_ the saner part of his brain reminded him. _You aren’t a wicked person. You don’t enjoy causing people pain, especially not people that you love._

Jehan shook his head to clear his thoughts and said again, “Hang on.”

R waited, shifting on his feet nervously. Jehan couldn’t blame him. They were very out in the open, standing in the road here. The surrounding countryside was apparently empty, except for the large white house, but one could never be too careful. Especially one who was a recently escaped prisoner of the government, who belonged to a revolutionary group that had millions of dollars in bounty money over their heads, easily.

At any moment they could be attacked, or ambushed, or recaptured, and Jehan wanted to move into the house, which would at least provide some shelter.

Unfortunately, there was a roadblock in his way. More specifically, two roadblocks, who had just kissed again, short and sweetly, and were back to whispering to each other. Courfeyrac laughed, and Jehan was hit with such a wave of heartbreak that he doubled over, and R reached out in alarm.

Courfeyrac had several laughs, ranging from hysterical laughter resembling something like a witch’s cackle, to an adorable little _I love you so much_ giggle that made Jehan weak in the knees.

The smitten, in-love giggle was supposed to be Jehan’s, and while he wasn’t such a lovestruck idiot that he thought he _owned_ the laugh, generally, Courfeyrac reserved it for him. Another bitter surge of what he had lost made Jehan want to cry, and only the presence of R’s hands on his shoulders brought him back to the present.

“We can’t go through the front door,” he whispered, and R, bless him, didn’t question it. Instead, he mimed going around the house, most likely asking if there was a back door they could enter.

Jehan  didn’t want to go into the house at all. The rest of Les Amis were probably in there, and he didn’t feel like facing them, answering their questions, acting like nothing was happening when in fact his heart seemed to have been replaced by something resembling a rock.

Because no doubt the Amis were overjoyed about Courfeyrac and Combeferre and the development in their relationship. They were like that- encouraging and supportive.

Jehan didn’t feel like dealing with his amazing, supportive friends just yet.

He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

“We could keep going,” he said, but even as he spoke the words, he knew it was no good. There was nowhere else to go. They couldn’t very well return to the city, what with the recent bombings and the constant patrol of the gov-bots. Further out into the country wouldn’t lead them to anything, and it was more likely they would starve to death before they found anyplace to settle.

R gave him such a hard look that Jehan backed up a step.

“Right,” he said, and swallowed hard at the angry look in R’s bright blue eyes. “Terrible idea.”

R snorted.

“But I- I can’t go in there,” he said, and he hated how weak his voice sounded. “They’re all in there. Everyone. And I can’t face them. Not yet.”

R sighed, which  Jehan supposed was fair. After all, he was being  rather impossible.

But he couldn’t face his friends. Not yet.

“If there is a back entrance…” he said slowly, testing out the idea. “Could we sneak in without them knowing we were there? Hide out in the basement, or somewhere else they never go, and still have shelter and food without having to, like, interact with them?”

R frowned. He didn’t reach for his notebook, but the question was clear on his face: _Why?_

“Because I want to see them all again of course, just not… right now?” he tried. He realized how disjointed and sharp his sentences were becoming and tried to calm down. “I really don’t- I mean, I can’t face them yet, R. You understand, right?”

This time, R _did_ take out the notebook.

_I understand. But you have to see them sooner or later. Can only hide in the basement for so long._

Jehan’s shoulders slumped. “I know. Bad idea, huh?”

R winced. _Kind of, yeah. Don’t delay it. Just go up and say hello. They’ll be so excited to see you, I bet._

“What exactly are we betting?”

R rolled his eyes. He circled the word _go_ about four times, and thrust the notebook in Jehan’s face.

Jehan sighed. “Here goes nothing.”

And, with strength and willpower he didn’t know he possessed, he walked onto the porch.

***

Enjolras was talking with Feuilly, discussing the most efficient way of attacking a base when resources were limited, the costs and benefits, and Joly was sitting on the armchair opposite their couch, half-listening, half browsing the news online, looking for names he knew, places he had been, important things.

Since the end of the civilized government, there had been several changes in everyday life. For one thing, Les Amis had been forced into hiding, along with all the other groups and gangs scattered throughout the country. Every move they made had to be planned, every outing tracked and backed up in case of disaster. Even running errands had become more dangerous, because the entire world knew your face when the government wanted you.

Another change made was just _life,_ and how many things they had once taken for granted that were no longer around. Like school. University. Jobs had been shut down when everyone relocated. The population, the bustling, busy streets, were gone, too, replaced with the husk of a city that the gangs had taken over. Electricity was limited, and internet and cell service were sketchy (The Amis were most bummed about that last one).

And since the country had been taken out by bombs, some as early as mere weeks after the start of the end of the world, some as late as yesterday, everything was even more scarce. Food was nowhere to be found. There was barely a building standing anymore,

Only certain news was broadcast, and only on certain channels of the televisions that still worked, or the online newspapers, on the tablets with their spotty  internet connection. So news was limited, too, giving the government an advantage as they were the only ones who knew what the hell was going on half the time.

But Les Amis’ routine of checking the news remained a habit, no matter how few the sources.

Joly was presumably searching for any news they hadn't yet heard, but Enjolras guessed he wasn’t having much luck, based on the irritated huffing coming from his side of the room.

Feuilly was laying out the costs of just going and bombing a high-security government base with no plan and limited materials and team members up for the job, but Enjolras was only half-listening. It was unlikely that they would try such a thing, anyways, because while they were reckless, sometimes idiotic, college students, they weren’t suicidal.

Enjolras was wondering about his two best friends. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had disappeared a _long_ time ago, and Eponine had snickered something about them _finally getting their shit together, ay, Enj?_ while Enjolras just looked at her blankly. Eventually she had sighed and gone up to check on Gavroche.

He wondered if they were alright. They had been out on the porch for nearly fifteen minutes.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, causing Feuilly to come to an abrupt halt.

“What?”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” he said, facing Feuilly. “What if a gov-bot got them? What if they were captured what if they’re _dead_ oh my God _Feuilly…”_

Feuilly’s lips twitched, like he knew something Enjolras didn’t. “We’ll give them another.. five minutes, alright? Then we can go and- and check on them, I guess.”

“They could be _dead,_ ” Enjolras reemphasized. He stood. “I’m going to go make sure-”

“No!” Feuilly yelped, and tugged him back onto the couch. “We’ll, ah, give them a few minutes. They’re _fine,_ I swear. If we go out there and they aren’t, then I was wrong.”

“And you can kick his ass,” Eponine added cheerfully as she came down the stairs.

Feuilly sighed. “Yes, you can kick my ass if they’re dead. But they _aren’t,_ I’m telling you.”

“Then what are they _doing?_ ”

Feuilly and Eponine exchanged a meaningful look that Enjolras didn’t understand. He _hated_ feeling so out-of-the-loop, and immediately snapped, “ _What?_ ”

“Nothing,” they answered in unison, and split up- Eponine sneaking away to the kitchen, Feuilly closing his laptop and making his way down to the basement, where Musichetta had vanished to earlier, claiming she wanted to look over what provisions exactly were in the hidden room.

Enjolras turned to Joly, who tried unsuccessfully to hide behind his tablet screen.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

Joly attempted to rearrange his face into something resembling innocence.

Enjolras didn’t fall for it. “Where are Courfeyrac and Combeferre?”

“I don’t know!” he yelped, raising the tablet into what looked like a defensive position. “I have no idea, but they aren’t in the basement, and they aren’t here, and they aren’t upstairs, and the attic is Feuilly’s, and-”

“I didn’t ask where they _weren’t,_ ” Enjolras snapped.

“Probably on the porch!” Joly cried, then winced. “Don’t tell them I said that. I don’t know where they are, I mean. Nowhere.”

“Joly, my friend, you absolutely _suck_ at lying.” Eponine was back, leaning against the doorframe and examining her nails, and Enjolras wondered if she had ever really moved out of earshot. Probably not.

Joly’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “I know. I’m sorry, I just- stink. At lying. A lot.”

“We know,” Eponine said, but it wasn’t unkind. “Go find your girlfriend and boyfriend.”

“Musichetta is in the basement with Feuilly, and Boss is … upstairs? Maybe? I don’t know.”

“I didn’t ask you where they were, Jols. I said _go find them._ ”

“But I don’t need to-” Joly finally seemed to realize he was being dismissed. “Right. I’ll go find… Bossuet first. Because he needs me. I can hear him calling. A lot. I’ll just- yes.”

He got up and sprinted to the stairs, then came back, grabbed his tablet off the armchair, and raced back again.

When he was gone, Eponine turned to Enjolras. “You can’t really tell me you don’t know what your two best friends in the world are doing out on the porch, _in private,_ right now, can you?”

Enjolras looked at her with a quizzical expression, and she groaned, flopping down onto the couch beside him.

“Let me spell it out for you,” she said in a pained voice, looking for all the world like he was being absolutely impossible, when in fact he had no idea what he’d done wrong.

“They’re probably _kissing_ , right at this very moment, because they’ve been hopelessly in love with each other for years and they’re _just now_ pulling together those icky feelings and _acting_ on them.”

“What?” Enjolras jumped, like he’d been physically shocked. _Courfeyrac and Combeferre?_ But Courf had always had Jehan… and Combeferre had never expressed interest in Courfeyrac before.

It was at this moment that Enjolras realized just how much of his best friends’ lives he had missed. If he hadn't even picked up on their _apparently obvious_ crushes on each other, he needed to get it together and start paying more attention to his team. How was he expecting them all to work together as a unit when he was setting such a shitty example?

“Yeah, they haven’t been exactly subtle about it,” Eponine put in, running a hand through her hair and messing up her braid even more than it already was. “Thought you’d have picked up on  it by now.”

“Guess not,” Enjolras muttered, closing his laptop slowly.

 _Courfeyrac_ and _Combeferre?_

When had _that_ happened?

It wasn’t that he was bothered by it- quite the opposite. He actually thought his two friends would be quite good together. They balanced each  other out- where Courfeyrac was bubbly and bright, Combeferre was solemn and quiet. They would fit well together, and, with Enjolras’ luck, they would date forever and ever, become that annoyingly sweet couple and, eventually, when this whole dystopia-nonsense was over, they would get married, settle down, and adopt three kids and a dog.

Alright, so he was a tiny bit bothered. But only because they were a _trio._ They did everything together, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre dating would most certainly change that. Enjolras would be reduced to a third wheel as his two best friends, his two other halves, (other thirds, whatever,) went off and did couple-y things together.

They probably wouldn’t do that.

Hopefully wouldn’t do that.

Enjolras shook his head. His friends were finally _happy,_ dammit, which wasn’t a common thing, what with recent events and such, and he was _not_ going to mess this up for them. They deserved at least this, if nothing else.

He glanced one last time towards the porch, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were.

_They deserve to be happy._

He reopened his laptop and opened a search engine, not paying attention to where he went from there.

***

If a gov-bot came along and shot Courfeyrac right there, at least he would die a happy man.

He was lost in the sensation of _kissing Combeferre,_ a sensation that, a few days ago, didn’t even seem like a possibility. But this was the end of the world, or at least the world that they knew. Crazy things could happen.

And, _oh,_ Combeferre was an amazing kisser. He knew just how to tilt his head, knew just what way to move his mouth against Courfeyrac’s that made Courf whimper and press closer to his friend. Boyfriend. Partner? Courfeyrac didn’t know, and he was thinking maybe he should pull apart and ask what exactly they had become in the last few minutes, when Combeferre did something simply _glorious_ with his tongue, and all of a sudden, speaking and reasoning and thinking didn’t seem like priorities.

When they finally did break the kiss, they touched foreheads, breathing heavily, and Combeferre said, “Wow.”

 Courfeyrac laughed out loud.

“Wow is right,” he agreed breathlessly. “That was fantastic.”

“Oh, good.” And was it his imagination, or did Combeferre look _insecure?_ “I’m not really all that great at this whole kissing thing… I mean, I haven’t had much practice, so…”

Courfeyrac just gaped at him. “ _Not really all that great?!_ ” he cried incredulously. “That’s it. I’m calling bullshit. There’s _no way_ you don’t have experience in this. You’re freaking… you… holy _crap._ ”

Words had lost all meaning, and Courfeyrac was hyperaware of the stuttering mess he had become, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“I said _much_ practice. I haven’t had _much._ ”

“And I said bull. Shit. That was one of the greatest kisses I have _ever_ received in my life.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes,_ Combeferre. Geez. I swear, like, do you take classes? Because no one is just _naturally_ that good of a kisser.”

“Yes, Courf. I regularly take classes on the proper techniques of kissing, which I somehow squeeze in between my revolutionary group and their plans to overthrow the oppressive government.”

Courfeyrac just stared at him, and Combeferre laughed.

“Joking,” he said, and his dorky little smile was all it took for Courfeyrac to pull him down into another kiss.

***

R watched the two lovers on the porch and pretended not to notice Jehan shaking beside him.

He knew why the boy was distraught, of course; Jehan had been fantasizing about seeing his boyfriend again ever since they’d broken out of the base yesterday. Fey’s name had been the most prominent word on Jehan’s lips. R could almost picture this wonderful person  himself; a creature of sunshine and happiness who lit up Jehan’s world and loved him unconditionally.

Somehow, this description didn’t match up with the person less than a hundred yards away _currently making out with someone else._

R understood why Jehan didn’t want to approach the house where his life was unraveling right before his eyes, but at the same time, they needed to get out of the open. Any moment, something could come from the distance and shoot them. Something could come around that bend in the road. Something could just… _appear._

And R didn’t want to be around when that happened. He wanted to be safe, under shelter, preferably in that _nice house_ that probably belonged to _rich_ people.

Les Amis seemed to have connections in good places.

His stomach growled, and he wondered when he had last eaten. Two days ago? Maybe?

Jehan looked at him. “We need food,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

_You okay?_

“No, but screw that. We need to get inside. Let’s go.”

And he led the way across the yard to the porch, R at his heels.

***

Musichetta had been walking around the basement, inspecting the old dance studio and checking out the accessibility to the hidden room, when Feuilly joined her.

At her raised eyebrow, he had only replied, “Needed to get away from all the drama.”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac, or…?”

“Yeah, them. Well, not them, so much, I mean, they’re out of the way, doing… whatever it is they’re doing. They aren’t the problem. The problem is that their best friend is bloody _clueless_ when it comes to other people’s love lives.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know,” she laughed, and then sobered up immediately. “Wait. You left _Eponine_ to describe what’s going on to _Enjolras?_ ”

“Yes?” he asked cautiously. “Is she not the best for the job?”

“Oh, no she’s the best. She’ll explain it _in great detail,_ and I need a video camera _dammit Feuilly_ why didn’t you tell me we were leaving it up to the most sarcastic and –love you Ep,- insensitive of our bunch to tell the most clueless of us, save Pontmercy, about his two best friends most likely making out on the porch!”

“Um, sorry?”

She sighed. “Maybe she’ll tell me what his reaction was like later.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

They stood in silence for a moment, and then Feuilly said, “So you’ve been checking over what’s in the hideaway?”

“Right. So when you open this- hang on, _this_ panel here, there’s a secret room,” she said, demonstrating. Feuilly peered inside the wall to see the deceptively large hiding place, filled with a mattress and a mini fridge. There was a pantry stocked with nonperishable food items, and a first aid kit, and a box full of random survival items they might need- flashlights, blankets, matches, and more.

Feuilly whistled. “They’re _really_ prepared.”

“For _everything_ ,” Musichetta agreed. “There could be a freaking zombie apocalypse and they’d be ready.”

“Oh, don’t even say things like that, because knowing us and our _sucky_ luck so far, the dead will start to rise again, and then we’ll really be screwed,” Feuilly grumbled, and Musichetta laughed.

She closed the mirrored door, and Feuilly marveled at how seamlessly it appeared to be just a part of the wall. There was hardly even a crack, and he was about to ask if she knew anything about the mechanics behind that when he heard the shriek.

He locked eyes with Musichetta. “Did you hear that, too?”

“Let’s go,” she said, already halfway to the basement stairs.

Up on ground level, Feuilly expected to see gov-bots, maybe government officials. His friends bleeding out on  the floor. Someone being led out in  chains.

That wasn’t the case, thankfully.

Instead, four people were crowding the doorway, and with a rush of relief, Feuilly noted that all were unharmed, for the most part. Two were Combeferre and Courfeyrac, done making out and having just apparently escorted the other two in.

One was a tall boy, about Feuilly’s age, maybe a bit younger, with shocking blue eyes and a curly mess of dark hair. He glanced around the room, as though sure something were about to attack him, and yet there was something unnerving about his stature, the way he held himself. He didn’t seem to be uneasy or nervous, just mildly curious. He didn’t look like he trusted Les Amis, but he also didn’t have his gun, which hung at his side, trained on them, so he must have had at least _some_ faith that they wouldn’t kill him.

As for the other boy…

Oh _God._ It was _Jehan_.

Jehan, who they had thought dead for days. Jehan, who had supposedly been beaten and killed deep within the government base. Jehan, who Courfeyrac mourned _and then had moved on from._

That could be a slight issue, Feuilly thought, with a quick glance at Courfeyrac and Combeferre and their closeness, their interlocking fingers, since Courfeyrac and Jehan had never officially broken up. Just, you know, separated when Jehan was supposedly killed.

It tended to work like that.

All of a sudden there was a crowd around the door. Bossuet and Joly came down the stairs, roused by the shriek. Enjolras and Eponine had risen from the couch, and Musichetta had run off to fetch Marius, who was receiving a tour of the garden from Cosette.

(Really, Feuilly didn’t see what was so great about a few rows of vegetables, or why it should take all morning.

But Marius was absolutely smitten, so he supposed that contributed to the interest factor.)

Jehan and the other guy were pushed through the door and stood awkwardly in the threshold for a minute, looking at everyone apprehensively.

Finally, Eponine stepped forward. “ _Jehan…_ ”

No further words were needed. He stepped forward and hugged her tightly, and for a while, no one dared interrupt, dared mess up this moment for them.

Then they pulled apart, and Eponine said, “You’re alive.”

That was it. Not _okay._ Not _alright._ Not even _safe._ Just _alive_ , which Feuilly supposed was all that mattered at the moment. Less than a minute ago, he had thought Jehan was _dead,_ killed in some torture chamber, his body burned until nothing but memory remained of the beautiful boy who wrote poems and loved life. They had _all_ thought that.

And yet, here he was, standing before them, _still able to stand,_ with a few minor injuries visible.

It became too much. He was _alive._ Feuilly came towards Jehan, and hugged him as well. Joly went next, and Bossuet added to the group hug, enveloping Joly and Jehan both in his arms. Pretty soon, every member of Les Amis had hugged Jehan.

Every member except Courfeyrac.

Feuilly watched him with interest, wondering how he would play this out. He could argue that he had thought Jehan to be dead and therefore was _perfectly_ justified in getting a new boyfriend. Or he could ditch Combeferre and return to the relationship he had had before with Jehan, which, quite frankly, Feuilly thought, but be an assholish thing to do to Combeferre.

Jehan and Courfeyrac studied each other for a very long time. It was just beginning to get awkward when Courfeyrac finally murmured, “You’re back.”

Jehan made a sound that may have been a snort. “No thanks to you,” and all of a sudden, the tender moment was gone. He turned to the room at large, to Les Amis. “No thanks to any of you. You left me there to die. You didn’t even think to come and rescue me, try to get me out. You left me to those… those _monsters,_ and it _sucked._ It sucked a _lot.”_

For a long time, there was stunned silence. No one spoke.

Feuilly couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t like Jehan. Jehan didn’t hold grudges. He didn’t get angry easily. And he was very understanding. The Old Jehan wouldn’t have commented on the fact that he got no rescue team. The Old Jehan would have been grateful to be alive. He would have rejoined the team effortlessly, like he’d never even left.

Clearly, Old Jehan was gone. His time at the base had changed him into a completely different person.

And that _scared_ Feuilly. It really did. It was a reminder from the government that, no matter what they did to try to stop them, no matter how many bombs fell on the base, no matter how many prisoners escaped, the government still owned them. All of them. And they left lasting, scarring, life-ruining reminders everywhere- in the cities they had bombed to ashes. In the revolutionaries and criminals and even innocents who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in the way that the government executed them, usually publicly. In the prisoners that managed to escape- and were changed, scarier versions of themselves, leaving  everyone else to wonder what the _hell_ they had gone through in that shithouse.

Finally, Enjolras said, “We thought you were _dead,_ Jehan. We didn’t send anyone into that base after you because we didn’t think there was anyone to rescue.”

“We thought they’d killed you,” Courfeyrac whispered. “J, we thought you were dead.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jehan snapped, then seemed to regain some of his civility. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just… I was _counting_ on you guys to come bust me out, and it never happened. I had to rely on R and  his buddies to bomb the place and save me.”

“R?” Combeferre asked.

The dark-haired one gave a small wave.

“Wait…” Enjolras looked astonished. “ _You_ bombed that base? You got Jehan – and a hundred others – out of that top-security base?”

R pulled a small notebook out of the waistband of his pants and wrote something down, then held it up.

_My team, yeah. Top-security, my ass. Too easy to get in and out. They need an upgrade._

Enjolras tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. “That’s… That’s amazing. Seriously.”

“Is Enjolras actually giving someone a _compliment?_ ” crowed Eponine. “ _This,_ my friends, is a monumental day. Someone record this for future generations to come- _Enjolras has feelings!_ ”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. R snickered, or what was probably intended to be a snicker but in fact sounded more like a leaky tire.

Jehan sighed. “Yes. This is R. He saved my life because you bloody idiots wouldn’t, and I owe him everything. Be nice to him.”

He turned his body away from Courfeyrac, clearly signaling that their conversation was finished, at least for now, and faced the others.

“I’ve missed a lot,” he said brightly. “Like how we came to meet in this _awesome_ house. So catch me up.” He moved past the crowd in the threshold, making his way to a couch and flopping down on it, looking for all the world like he owned it. “Tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if jehan was, like, wildly out of character? i just wanted him to snap
> 
> is that terrible
> 
> i think so
> 
> SO ANYWAYS i've been looking at other fanfictions and, like, no other author has author's notes as long as mine so SoRrY I just have a lot of feelings
> 
> *does awkward little dance* woot woot
> 
> yeah
> 
> hope everyone who did the halloween had a happy one!
> 
> onto thanksgiving, which is one of my favs because COME ON ITS FOOD MAN 
> 
> TURKEY
> 
> GREEN BEANS
> 
> POTATOES
> 
> and man i am so off track. lo siento. 
> 
> thank you, kevin. less than three, boo. 
> 
> and as always, a giant thankyou to ShippingEverything for all your amazingness
> 
> (I'm still hooked on sa thanks a freaking lot my heart has been ripped from my body but oh its the best kind of pain)
> 
> again with the super long ANs. SoRrY.
> 
> night, y'all
> 
> -byrd


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which pieces of this puzzle come together. only it's like 10,000 pieces. and none of them are for the same puzzle. fun times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAACK *throws confetti*
> 
> sorry for being gone so long... school. and life. ALSO NEWSIES but don't ask me about it unless you want me to go into encyclopediac detail and gush about it for seven years (i MET THE AMAZING CAST MY LIFE IS COMPLETE)
> 
> i'm done now
> 
> but so kevin my dear, dear friend told me that my chapters were too long??? to which i said "bull. crap."
> 
> but anyways this one isn't as long. i'm going to try to update more. because it was awesome in the beginning of this fic when i had like eleven chapters all lined up
> 
> @past self where u at though. i need your productivity and ambition.
> 
> as always, much thanks to ALL my lovely readers, especially ShippingEverything and kevin, who nEEDS TO CATCH UP 
> 
> here goes. 
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Eighteen_

Cosette watched silently from her position in the kitchen doorway as the Amis filed in around the newcomers. When Musichetta had fetched them from the garden, Cosette had expected the worst- more wounded friends requiring medical assistance that none of them could provide, another comrade dead, something along the lines of that.

But all seemed to be fine. Jehan was still lounging on the couch, in a very relaxed manner considering  he’d just snapped at all of them. Musichetta had told them he was back, but even without the introduction, Cosette would have known this boy anywhere, from the extensive and numerous details given by his (then) grieving friends over the course of yesterday and today. Hair that might have once been red, now matted and filthy and chopped off at an awkward angle. Eyes that still sparkled green, even through the darkness and despair clouding them. A face that, though cut up and covered in dirt and grime, was a mix of feminine beauty and masculine handsomeness.

Yes, she would know the face solely by his friends’ description alone.

But this didn’t explain why he was here, sitting on her couch, watching Les Amis settle on the couches and chairs. _Alive._

She couldn’t dwell on him right now, so she turned to the other one.

The dark-haired boy with bright blue eyes looked slightly scared, but also like he was trying to hide it. There were dark bags under his eyes and cuts and bruises littering his body, but he looked strong and physically fit. He had to have been, to make it all the way out into the country in such a short amount of time.

As the group took turns telling Jehan what had been happening, he moved around so that he was standing behind the couch Jehan was on.  With his guarded expression and the protective air he seemed to be directing towards Jehan, he looked like a very tired, very beat-up bodyguard.

On the armchair, the man who seemed to be second in command (Combeferre, Cosette thought, his name was Combeferre,) said something about the move from the bunker to here, and Courfeyrac picked up the sentence with a laugh and a completely obvious adoring look.

Cosette wondered if anyone else noticed how the tension in Jehan’s shoulder muscles seemed to triple after that.

“They really aren’t being very subtle about it, are they?”

Cosette jumped. Eponine had snuck up beside her and was surveying the scene with an amused expression.

She regained her composure. “Well, considering Jehan probably walked into a makeout session between them… I’d say there isn’t much to be subtle about anymore.”

“Damn, you’re right. You think they were kissing when Jehan walked up?”

“Look at how tense he is. Is that the posture of a boy who is oblivious? If he doesn’t know _exactly_ what’s going on with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he’s got a pretty good idea.”

“Cosette, you are a smart, smart girl. Don’t ever  let anyone tell you otherwise, little lark.” And then Eponine froze, seeming to realize what she had just said.

Lark was  Cosette’s old nickname, from when the Thenardiers had fostered her  The name had caught on when Mme. Thenardier had made a reference to how much Cosette resembled a songbird- useless and annoying, not really good for much, but occasionally an excellent source of entertainment.

Those were better times for the Thenardiers, when they had more money than they knew what to do with and the children were spoiled rotten. They got new clothes and the latest electronic gadget every week at least, and they were well-fed. Their father hadn't yet been discovered as the leader of a gang of drug dealers and criminals, so they didn’t have to live a life of fear. They could play outside without the feeling of being watched. They could go places without expecting a bullet in their back at any  minute.

Yes, those were the days.

For everyone except Cosette.

Because when Eponine and her sister Azelma got new dresses and phones constantly, Cosette got their leftovers and hand-me-downs. When they got lavish, designer bedrooms, Cosette got the guest room. When any of the children were given praise or adoration from their mother, Cosette was looked over as though she were invisible.

And in a way, she was. The Thenardiers treated her more like a maid than a child. She was decently fed and clothed just enough to be considered appropriate, but it was clear where Mme. and Msr. Thenardier’s priorities lay. If they addressed the girl at all, she was lucky if they got her name right.

“Euphrasie,” they would call to summon her, although she had never gone by her given name. “Courgette. Colette. Lark,” or sometimes just, “Girl.”

“Cosette,” Eponine said now, shock clouding her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think, I just- Sorry.”

It was the first time Cosette had ever seen the brash,  stubborn girl look so startled, and a secret part of her, deep down, reveled in the moment.

But out loud she said, “You’re doing just fine, Ponine. You remember too, then?”

Eponine’s laugh was a bitter and fragile thing. “How could I forget our little songbird? I was so awful to you… and once you left with Msr. Moneybags, things went to shit. Mom had three more kids, all boys, which she quickly realized she didn’t want, and got rid of them.  We got poor. Dad started killing people, selling more dangerous and illegal things. Life got terrible, Cosette. And you got to live your life out on your castle in the sky.”

She sounded so heartbroken that Cosette had to physically restrain herself from hugging the other girl. Somehow, she sensed that that particular action would not be welcomed by Eponine.

“I’m sorry,” she  whispered. “If I could have taken you with me, I would have. Azelma, too.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding? I was a total bitch to you. We both were. We _all_ were.”

“Not your fault,” Cosette said gently. “Your parents greatly influenced your views of me, so you can’t call that _all_ your fault. Or your sister’s. I still would have brought you, if I’d have known what kind of hell you would eventually go through.”

“Of course you would,” Eponine said, and the hard edge was back in her voice. “Because that’s just the type of person you _are,_ Lark.  And if I hadn't grown up with you and seen firsthand what an angel you really are, I would call bullshit, but since I can’t exactly do that…”

In the living room, they watched as Courfeyrac slipped off the arm of the chair and into Combeferre’s lap. Neither of them seemed to mind this, so they stayed in this position, completely unaware of the look Jehan was giving them.

“Oh, they’re being _terrible,_ ” Eponine murmured.

“You think they’re meaning to?” Cosette asked, because she had had exactly one night to determine who all these people were. She didn’t know them yet.

“I don’t think they’re _intentionally_ being assholes, no,” Eponine said with a sigh. “But they could get their heads out of the clouds every once and a while and realize that they’re breaking hearts.”

“Any idea who that other one is?” Cosette asked, mostly for a topic change.

“Nope.” Eponine’s eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

“You know him?” she asked, glancing nervously at the dark-haired boy behind Jehan. Even after Eponine had turned her act around and started fighting for good, she still didn’t hang out with the most moral and good of people. Anyone that Eponine knew was a potential threat, as far as Cosette was concerned. Unless Eponine herself said otherwise.

“No, I just… he looks familiar, is all,” Eponine mused.

“Could you have run into him on the streets? Is he part of Patron-Minette?”

Call Cosette overprotective, but she liked to know exactly what kind of criminals were inhabiting her father’s home. Revolutionaries fighting for a better world, that, she could live with. But gangsters and druggies? Not so much.

“I don’t _think_ so,” Eponine said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement. “Hang on.”

They stood in silence as she looked long and hard at the newcomer, head cocked, eyes searching, the picture of concentration.

Finally, just when Cosette was beginning to think she didn’t know the boy at all, she said, “Shit.”

On the couch, Joly said something, punctuated by a large hand gesture that managed to nail Bossuet in the forehead. Bossuet yelped and fell backwards, and Musichetta helped him back up, laughing.

“Shit,” Eponine said again. “Yeah, I know him.”

She turned away. Cosette wanted to tell her that she didn’t mind seeing her cry, but she remained silent, letting Eponine be proud and stubborn for a bit before she turned back around.

“He was my buddy,” she said with a hollow laugh. “We were each other’s torture room partners. I thought… I mean, the gov-bots messed him up pretty bad. I thought he was dead.”

“Oh, Eponine…” Cosette trailed off. Eponine didn’t look like she wanted sympathy right now.

“I’ve got to be sure it’s him,” Eponine muttered, and marched into the living room.

Amidst a retelling by Feuilly about their trip here, Eponine approached the dark-haired boy. Cosette couldn’t hear exactly what she said to him, but he looked at her quizzically. She pointed to her own hand and then to his, and he hesitantly pulled back his sleeve to reveal a hand wrapped in a strip of cloth. Blood had soaked through and it should have been changed about a week ago.

Eponine took a step back in alarm, and said something else. The boy shook his head, and she made her way back over to Cosette in the doorway, just as Feuilly wrapped up his story with a, “That’s it. That’s all we’ve done. So what’s been happening back at our favorite government base? How’d you get out, exactly?”

Jehan shrugged and looked to his dark-haired companion. “The bombs took out an entire aboveground wing of cells, allowing hundreds of prisoners to escape. A metal beam fell across my cell and would have crushed me, but R here helped me out.”

R nodded, not saying anything. Cosette wondered if he was just shy, or he didn’t like talking, or perhaps it was some sort of post-traumatic stress condition, where after recent horrors, he just didn’t speak.

“How’d you find us?” Courfeyrac asked. In the mouth of anyone else, the words might have been inquiring and curious, but out of the mouth of Jehan’s ex (ex?), it probably sounded accusatory, more a _why are you here?_ than a _oh good, you made it. How?_

“I figured…” Jehan murmured, tracing the lining of the arm of the couch. “We found the bunker, abandoned, and I figured you weren’t among the ruins of the city, so I deducted you must be out in the country.”

“Ruins of the city?” Combeferre leaned forward, almost throwing Courfeyrac off his lap. “You mean there’s nothing left?”

“You mean you didn’t know?” Jehan asked.

“We knew the city had been bombed,” Enjolras put in. “We didn’t know to what extent.”

Jehan laughed. “To the furthest extent. The entire city, and surrounding area, is rubble.”

“So we’re trapped here?” Joly asked. “In this house, I mean. We’ve got no place to go?”

“Possibly, but I wonder…”  Feuilly mused, looking to Eponine in the doorway. “Do we know where the others are hiding out? Do they  have a base, or are they just wandering?”

“I’m assuming you mean Patron-Minette,” Eponine said, and sighed. “I don’t know, to be honest. They move constantly, which I guess is smart, considering the bounty on their heads. Sometimes they’ll be underground. Sometimes in a building, which I suppose isn’t an option anymore. I suppose it’s too much to hope that they’ve been blown to pieces?”

“Probably,” Combeferre admitted. “Although that would be a piece of luck.”

“But there are others out there. Besides the gangs, I mean,” Jehan said. “R and I saw a little kid and an  armed man out there on our way here.”

“How close?” Feuilly asked.

Jehan looked to R, who shrugged. “Couple miles, maybe? Outskirts of town,” Jehan said.

“Oh, no,” Eponine murmured, and without another word, sprinted up the stairs.

“Eponine!” Cosette called, but she was gone.

“I don’t think that was just a random gunman,” Musichetta said. “I bet it was a member of Patron-Minette, and I’d bet anything we know the kid, too.”

Feuilly closed his eyes, like he was about to say something he would regret. “Was there anyone else… In the surrounding area?”

Jehan shook his head no, but then R tapped his shoulder frantically and pulled a tiny notepad, like the kind waiters take orders on. He wrote something hurriedly and showed it to Jehan.

“Oh! The man,” Jehan exclaimed. “As we were approaching, there was a man with the boy, facing down the man with the gun.”

“And…” Feuilly inhaled deeply. “And what happened to the man?”

“He was shot,” Jehan said in a small voice. “Did we… did we know him?”

“Jehan…” Courfeyrac began, but he was cut off.

“ _Bahorel_ , y’ idiot. Y’ watched your own teammate git _shot_ ,” Gavroche said from the stairs. He was being supported by Eponine, which he didn’t seem too pleased about, but he was up and no longer on death’s door, which was an improvement from last night.

“You-” Jehan jumped up, looking towards the stairs with an expression of shock on his face. “You’re the kid we met in the road!”

“How d’ya do?” Gavroche tipped an imaginary hat with his good hand. “Th’ name’s  Gavroche Thenardier.”

“Thenardier… what the _hell._ You let the son of a crime lord in here? What if he’s spying on us for his father?” Jehan asked incredulously.

Eponine coughed. They were almost to the bottom step now. “Son, _and_ daughter, of a crime  lord.”

“What the _hell_.”

“An’ our old man’s been in jail fo’ever,” Gavroche pointed out. “So there ain’t no chance o’ us reportin’ t’ him.”

“He also hates our guts,” Eponine added. “He wouldn’t trust us with his car keys, much less his gang’s plans.”

“Agreed,” Gavroche said with a laugh, then winced.

Joly stood from his place on the couch. “You shouldn’t be here, Gav. You need to be back in bed, resting, _healing,_ you’re going to get an infection and _die_ …”

“Joly,  sit,” Bossuet and Musichetta  said in unison, and he flopped back onto the couch.

Eponine led her brother into the room, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac vacated the armchair for him. Gavroche settled and looked around at the room full of Amis.

“I’m missing something,” Jehan said. “Who are _you_?”

“A’ready told ya. I’m  Gavroche. Eponine’s kid brother. Heir t’ th’ Thenardier bank account, or I woul’ be, if m’ old man didn’ hate me an’ if I gave a flyin’ shit.”

“Language,” at least three Amis responded.

“But what are you _doing_ here?” Jehan asked. “Why were you in the road with that man?”

“Tha’ man? Bahorel . Your teammate. Frien’. We was both captured in th’ base, an’ escaped yesterday. We was so close. Almost made it, too.”

“Bahorel  is… dead?” Jehan asked, and even from the doorway, Cosette noticed how all the Amis averted  their gaze.

“What?” he whispered. “I could have… I could have stopped it I could have saved him.”

“You could have _what_?”  Feuilly was on his feet in an instant. “ _What did you say?_ ”

There was a fight brewing, Cosette could feel it, and it just _wouldn’t do_ to bloody up the nice rug. So she stepped into the living room, directly in the center, and poured on the charm.

“Perhaps we should hear the entire story,” she said.

“He can’t just _drop a bomb_ like that and expect me to-”

“No, _he_ can’t, but _I_ can,” Cosette snapped, whirling on him. “And you are currently disturbing the peace of _my house._ Can it or leave, _monsieur._ ”

Feuilly shut his mouth and sat, but if looks could kill, Jehan would be dead ten times over already.

“Now,” Cosette said sweetly, delicately seating herself between Marius and Enjolras on the couch, both of whom shifted away nervously. She smoothed her skirts.

“It seems we have some explaining to do, gentlemen,” she said.

“And ladies,” Musichetta put in.

“Nah, we’re good. We didn’t do anything wrong,” Eponine pointed out.

“Very true,  Ep. _Gentlemen_ , it seems we aren’t all up-to-date on the past few days.” She looked around at the room of assembled Amis. “So who wants to start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS CHAPTER WAS SO LONG-AWAITED AND THEN SUPER ANTICLIMACTIC 
> 
> aka the boring chapter- they start in the living room, explaining things, and end up in exactly the same postion, doing exactly the same thing. 
> 
> sorry not sorry for my badass cosette scene- i just need some power from the female side right about now.
> 
> also the fact that starbucks makes not only a large but an extra large as well pleases and frightens me. like, do you realize how much power you hold, starbucks? world domination in a cup, i'm telling you.
> 
> ...don't let me anywhere near starbucks, kevin
> 
> sooooooo thanks so much for all your lovely support! (love you ShippingEverything and kevin <3)
> 
> i'll try to have the next chapter up Sometime Soon but with me that could literally be a few days or a few weeks. idk, man. we'll just see.
> 
> -byrd


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things happen bc the author realizes that amis sitting on their butts is not interesting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends i have returned
> 
> i was at a party (imagine that byrd has a life) and one of my friends was like YISS MY FAV FANFIC FINALLY UPDATED
> 
> and i was like oh shoot i need to update too
> 
> so here's this
> 
> i would like to apologize in advance- it's 3am and i am not at my most creative. or literate
> 
> what even are words.
> 
> much thanks, as always, to kevin, shippingeverything (who, this just in: is gorg. seriously i am jealous of your face friend) and also to my fangirl friend who (unknowingly) helped me realize it was time for me to update again
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Nineteen_

It was decided that they would make the explaining process into a sort of game- Jehan would state a fact he believed to be true, and one of the Amis would tell him if he were correct or not.

“Like Real or Not Real,” Courfeyrac said excitedly. When all he got were blank stares, he huffed indignantly.

“You mean to tell me that _none_ of you have ever read—you know what, never mind,” Courfeyrac sighed. “Uncultured _swine_ is what you all are.”

“Hey,” Combeferre said indignantly. “I take offense to that.”

“All except _you,_ Ferre,” Courfeyrac amended, and flashed him a winning smile.

“Get a room,” Eponine groaned. “Jehan, you can start with anything.”

Jehan seemed to consider it for a long time. “You guys thought I was dead.”

“Yes,” the room chorused at large.

“We got your comms signal after they’d already gotten you,” Courfeyrac whispered, the smile gone from his face. “It was nothing but a recording, all the way up to when your comms was destroyed. We thought they had killed you, J. I thought… we thought you were gone.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jehan murmured. He turned to Feuilly. “Bahorel ’s gone?”

Feuilly’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Eponine almost stepped back, the fury in his expression was so evident. She was surprised that Jehan didn’t spontaneously combust.

“ _Yes,_ ” Feuilly hissed. “Yes, he’s gone. He’s _dead,_ you idiot.”

“How did he die?” Jehan asked, scooting away from Feuilly slightly.

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras said with distaste. “Bahorel and Gavroche were coming here from the base and Montparnasse shot Bahorel .”

“Gavroche. Eponine’s brother.”

“Yes.”

“But she isn’t a Thenardier,” Jehan said, confusion written across his features.

“Changed my name. Didn’t want to associate myself with those scum anymore,” Eponine said.

Jehan nodded slowly. “So why were Bahorel  and the kid in the base in the first place?”

“Missions gone wrong,” Musichetta said. “Bahorel  got captured on a scouting party to find  _you,_ and Gavroche snuck into the base to let Eponine out. He  got caught on the way out.”

“Eponine,” Jehan realized, and turned to her. “You made it out. You-you’re _alive_. _”_

“Jus’ figgered it out now, didya?” Gavroche muttered. Eponine smacked his good arm.

“How?” Jehan asked.

“Same way we thought you were dead,” Eponine said. “We just never revealed confirmation, and so we assumed you were gone.”

“Only with Eponine,” Combeferre put in, “we actually received word that she had been killed, deep within the basement of that godforsaken base.”

“With you…” Joly trailed off. “I mean, we found a puddle of your _blood._ That can only mean so much.”

Jehan nodded, processing the information, then turned to Gavroche, who was adjusting his position in the  armchair so that he was more comfortable. “How’d you and Bahorel  get out of there? Isn’t it top-of-the-line security?”

“Top o’ th’ line my _ass_ ,” Gavroche snorted, ignoring the at least five _“language_ ”s he received in return. “They haven’ updated their system in _months._ It was easy.”

“And you had _help,_ ” Cosette said pointedly, shooting him a look.

“Course,” he said hurriedly. “’Sette’s papa helped us out, too.”

Jehan now cocked his head at her. “Your dad’s a part of the rebellion?”

“He’s an inside man,” she explained. “Disguised as a human guard. He goes in, and smuggles prisoners and information out.”

R, who had been still and silent this entire time, now scribbled something on his notepad and showed it to Jehan.

Jehan nodded thoughtfully and relayed the words out loud. “So you work behind the scenes. Just as useful, you know.”

She beamed at R. “Thank you. And yes. I’m not _quite_ cut out for the whole front-lines part of this war, so I stay here, helping however I can.”

“So you house stray revolutionaries,” Enjolras said with a slight smile.

Eponine sighed. “I suppose we all fit under that classification now, don’t we? Strays, I mean?”

When no one argued, she said, “Well, that’s depressing. Never thought my life would amount to _this_.”

Combeferre turned to Jehan. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Oh, yes, _loads._ ” Jehan straightened on the couch. “So it was Montparnasse, king of the crime lords, leader of the gang known as Patron-Minette, terror of this half of the country, that R hit in the head and knocked out cold, correct?”

Ten heads swiveled to look at R, who shifted from foot to foot nervously, then shrugged.

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” Jehan said. “You saved Gavroche’s life.”

R shrugged again, but this time, he was looking at Gavroche.

The boy considered the newcomer for a moment, then said, “Thanks. I guess. An’ y’ ain’t a half-bad hitter.”

R’s eyes danced with laughter. He wrote something down and walked it over to Gavroche, so that only he could see it, and the little boy laughed loudly. “Oh, tha’s _funny._ I _like_ this one!”

“What’s it say?” demanded Eponine. When she got no response, she marched over and held out a hand, apparently expecting R to hand her the notepad, but instead, R reached out and took her hand, placing a kiss to the back of it. He mimed tipping a hat and mouthed, _My lady_.

Gavroche was shaking from trying to hold in suppressed laughter, and Eponine flushed a dark pink.

“Promise me never to do that again,” she said, “and I won’t ask to see the note. Deal?”

R nodded, then exchanged glances with Gavroche, and the two of them burst out laughing again.

“Where is Bahorel  now?” Jehan asked suddenly, like it had been bothering him for some time.

 _That_ killed the mood faster than any gov-bot could. The sound of laughter died, and smiles faded from faces. Everyone turned to look at Jehan, who only looked slightly apologetic for ruining  their fun.

Feuilly’s eyes smoldered, and Eponine guessed that he was resisting the urge to cross the room and strangle Jehan.

“He’s. _Dead._ We already _told_ you that,” he said in a clipped tone.

“The _body,_ you idiot. Where’s the _body?_ ”

“You’re calling _me_ an idiot? You’re the one that got yourself captured!”

“So did your _boyfriend,_ Feuilly, and if you hadn't noticed, one of us is here, and  the other is _gone_!” Jehan yelled.

“I ought to kill you for that,” Feuilly hissed. “Do you know how much I’d like to? You come in here, acting like you _own_ it, making accusations and _insulting us?_ Who do you think you are?”

“A _member of this team,_ same as you,” Jehan said snidely.

Now Feuilly _did_ stand. “No member of Les Amis would take a dead comrade’s name and-and _defile_ it.”

“You’re one to talk! Did any of you even _care_ when I got captured, or was I _expendable_ in that scenario? You said there was a search party sent out for me. You obviously didn’t care too much!”

The rest of the room had been watching, eyes darting back and forth as if watching a tennis match. No one made a move to stop either Jehan or Feuilly, although several people were tense, wound up like springs, ready to step in should things turn ugly.

Finally, Joly spoke up. “Why do you… why do you say that, J?”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” he snapped. “If you would have cared, you would have sent your search party in with maximum technology, and since someone got bloody _captured,_ obviously you didn’t. The Amis were not at their tiptop. _That_ is how I know.”

Everyone remained silent, suddenly remembering that for all the dreaming they teased Jean Prouvaire of doing, he really was a silent genius.

“Jehan…” Enjolras started to say, then thought better of it and shut up, seeming to sense that nothing his fiery tongue could say would help the situation.

“I have one more question,” Jehan said, an ugly, very unJehan-like sneer across his face. “When did Courfeyrac become a cheating son of a _bitch?_ ”

The room erupted into shouts and yelling. Someone pulled Feuilly back onto the couch, but  there was no point, as in the next ten seconds, everyone was on their feet, some screaming at Jehan, Jehan screaming  right back. Courfeyrac looked hurt- and  confused.

“What?” he asked, looking at Jehan with something resembling heartbreak in his eyes. “What the _hell,_ J? Jehan, I mean. What are you _talking_ about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you never broke up with me before you started sleeping with Combeferre. I’m talking about how your name, your memory, _you,_ you were the only thing keeping me sane and getting me through this shit. If it wasn’t for you-” Jehan broke off with a sound that may have been a dry sob. “Without my happy memories with you, or the promise of seeing the love of my life again, I wouldn’t have made it. I would have tried to end it all, stuck in that filthy cell while around me, the government did unspeakable things to other prisoners. _I would have killed myself, Courf!_ ”

And suddenly Jehan sounded like a scared child, and Eponine wanted nothing more than to wrap a blanket around him and pat his head reassuringly, even though less than a minute ago, he’d been ready to slit all their throats.

“Jehan, I’m _sorry,_ ” Courfeyrac said, and the genuine tone in his voice made even Eponine believe him. “Honest, I am. I swear, if we’d have known you were alive, we would have raised holy hell to get you out.”

“ _Courfeyrac_ would have raised holy hell,” Eponine put in, unsure of whether or not she was helping the situation. “When he heard you ‘die’ over the comms unit, he was inconsolable. _He_ was the one to suggest the search party when Enjolras thought it was too much of a risk, and _he_ was the first one to volunteer for said mission. He didn’t _abandon_ you. None of us did. We _do_ care about you. All of us.”

She shot Courfeyrac a pointed look, but he still didn’t react until Combeferre poked him.

“What!” he yelped. “Yes, I mean. _Yes,_ Jehan, I care about you. I care. A lot.”

“Real reassuring, _Courf_ ,” Jehan shot back, and suddenly the playful nickname sounded like venom on his lips, because Jehan had never called Courfeyrac _Courf_ before. It was always Fey.

“At least I’m not the one throwing out _false accusations!_ ”

“What have I said that’s untrue?” Jehan cried.

“Um, maybe that I’m _sleeping_ with my best friend? We kissed _once,_ and God Almighty it was amazing but it was _once._ And I’m sorry that _that’s_ the exact time you walked in, but I’m not sleeping with him.”

Eponine wondered how blind a person could literally be. Combeferre flinched at his words and seemed to shrink back from Courfeyrac until they were no longer touching, but Courfeyrac didn’t seem to notice, eyes fixated on Jehan.

“So we’re done, then?” Jehan asked, after a long moment of silence.

“J, this is _really_ not where I would like to be having this conv-”

“ _Dammit,_ Fey, just tell me if you and I are through or not! Because I really can’t handle this emotionally taxing shit anymore and I just need an _answer!_ ”

No one dared speak, or even move, eyes fixed on one of the two of them as they argued. The Amis’ expressions ranged from shock and disbelief to anger to, in Feuilly’s case, pure loathing. Musichetta and Bossuet each had one of his arms, but without the restraints Eponine had no doubt he would have attacked Jehan a long time ago, for saying what he did about Bahorel .

Finally, Courfeyrac moved, not quickly or suddenly, but Jehan still backed away, and Eponine was reminded of her own time in the base. Why she, too, still shied away from loud noises and sudden movements towards her. Why, in a way, she was no different from Jehan, except she had had a brother and a backup team to come and rescue her, and Jehan?

Jehan had had no one except a mute rebel who had saved his life and followed him back here.

A rebel that Eponine knew well. Her old friend from the torture chamber. The cynic.

Courfeyrac moved to Jehan and kissed his cheek gently, really only a whisper of a touch, and then left the room. No one made any move to stop him as he disappeared down the stairs into the basement.

The conversation was clearly over.

Jehan touched his cheek lightly, as though still in disbelief at what had happened. Eponine could see tears beginning to form in his eyes, so she spoke.

“Well that went well,” she snarled, in her best _well, that was crap_ voice. “What now?”

Reluctantly, Les Amis sat back down, but Jehan stayed standing in the center of the room, not registering anything around him, hand still on his cheek.

“What now?” Enjolras echoed, for once sounding as lost as anyone. “We need a plan.”

“We need to know about what’s happening in that base,” Joly said slowly, eyes still on Jehan, in the center of the room. “Our connection way out here is sketchy, so our machines and devices are only partially reliable.”

“You’re saying we send people _back in there_?” Combeferre asked. “Didn’t we just establish why that’s a terrible idea?”

“Not necessarily _in_ the base,” Joly said.

Musichetta released her hold on Feuilly’s arm and leaned forward. “You mean like scouts. Not in the base, but around it. Relaying information from just outside the base.”

“Okay, maybe,” Enjolras relented. “But we also need to know what the other rebels are up to. The ones still in the city, if there are any.”

“We know that Patron-Minette’s still claiming a portion of land for their own purposes,” Combeferre said. “But we don’t know where, or why, or to what extent. We also don’t know how many of their group are left.”

“I suppose it would be too much to hope for that R’s hit to Monty’s head killed him?” Eponine asked dryly. When she was met with silence, she sighed. “Thought so.”

R shrugged. _I tried,_ he wrote, and a few people laughed.

“So we need to send out scouts into the city,” Enjolras said, with his best _strategic planning_ voice. “They need to look around, gather information, and we can go from there.”

“But go to _where?_ ” Feuilly asked. “All this pain and misery and death… what is our end goal here? Are we trying to stop the government, or destroy them? Wipe out whoever’s left, or save them and try to convert them to our ways? What are we hoping to accomplish here?”

“Doomsday ripped our country apart,” Jehan said, and several people jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. “Now, we try to take out the perpetrators, and piece our lives back together as best we can. That’s all we can hope to do.”

***

Bossuet wasn’t surprised when Eponine was chosen for the scouting mission to spy on Patron-Minette.

He also wasn’t surprised when his own instructions for the mission included both _sit_ and _stay,_ as well as _don’t touch anything._

The only surprising thing, really, was how much it hurt.

He’d always known he was an unlucky guy. From childhood, things had just never gone right for him, and, in time, he’d learned to laugh it off as just more bad luck. As a result, he was a generally cheerful person who could laugh at his own misfortune. After all, his friends didn’t love him any less because of it. He had an amazing boyfriend and girlfriend who loved him. His life didn’t suck as much as it could, given the fact that it was the end of the world.

All in all, things could have been worse. Much worse.

But he was beginning to feel useless. He understood that his unlucky tendencies could jeopardize missions and get people killed, so he stayed out of the way, but  he was feeling like staying to the side was all he ever did. He would never save the day. He would never be the hero.

What he _would_ be was the charger-holder. A noble task, Joly and Musichetta both had assured him.

Joly, who was a genius and could override any security systems put in front of him.

Musichetta, who had friends everywhere, in all sorts of places, with all sorts of jobs and occupations that always came in handy for just the right scenario.

He was quite sure neither of them felt useless. Or unwanted.

They were valuable members of the team, and Bossuet?

He was the comic relief.

He tried to hide his heavy sigh when Joly handed him the computer charger and told him to stay on the couch.

_Comic relief._

_Silly Bossuet. Always good for a laugh._

_Useless._

***

After about fifteen minutes of moping and being alone with his jumbled thoughts and overall feeling very miserable, Courfeyrac came back upstairs, just in time to see Eponine, Feuilly, and for some reason, Jehan,  suiting up for a mission.

(He found out from Marius that apparently, Jehan had threatened death upon them  all if he wasn’t allowed to go with them.

He also learned from Joly that this was an exaggeration.

“But only slight,” Joly whispered. “He looked at Enjolras with this _terrifying_ death glare, and I thought Enj would burst into flames or something. It was intense.”)

As the three of them armed themselves, Combeferre gave them a short debriefing lecture.

“You’re going in, _carefully,_ and coming back out. Try to avoid any direct confrontation with any members of Patron-Minette. We only want information that you can gather from watching and observing. No funny business. No heroics. No trying to be a badass. Got it?”

He fixed them all with a glare, and Courfeyrac would be lying to himself and  the world if he said he didn’t find it _extremely_ attractive.

They all murmured agreement.

“Good,” he said. “We expect you home by nightfall. We have you over comms, and you are all armed,” they each looked at the small black gov-bot guns strapped to their belts, “and this should go quite smoothly. Don’t shoot anyone or anything without reason. Don’t be an  idiot. Don’t risk your lives or your teammates’. Do you all understand?”

Nods from the three of them.

“Excellent. Enj, we ready?”

Enjolras looked up from his laptop. “Yes.”

“Everyone else?”

The others made noises of affirmation, most still fixated on their screens.

Combeferre turned to Jehan, Feuilly, and Eponine. “Time to go. Good luck.”

Eponine looked at her two companions, both of whom were eying each other warily, not having forgotten their argument earlier.

“This is going to be _great_ ,” she sighed. “I can feel it now. Let’s go.”

She led the way out the front door, and Courfeyrac’s “goodbye” died on his lips as the door swung shut.

“They’ll be fine,” Combeferre said, sounding like he wanted very much to believe it himself.

Courfeyrac settled on the couch in between Musichetta and Combeferre and tried to make out what they were doing, but Musichetta’s entire screen was in another language and Combeferre’ was so full of data and numbers that his head ached just looking at it.

So instead, he focused on the comms unit on the coffee table, thinking of how, in all the past missions, their bad news had come relayed over that cursed device, and he willed it not to bring them any more bad news.

 _Just a scouting party_ , he told himself. _Very little danger._

But the pessimistic side of him wondered if he was about to lose Jehan for the second time.

***

R was _bored._

He knew he wouldn’t be much help on this mission. The Amis didn’t know him well enough to assign him a task, and since he couldn’t speak, he was at a distinctive disadvantage.

So he had been put on the couch, next to the clumsy one whose name he couldn’t remember, out of the way. The other one held a charger in his hand.

R couldn’t even be that useful. He just sat and watched Mission Control come to life before him.

The girl and the boy who belonged to the clumsy one beside him were typing away on their own computers, with the one with glasses beside them, scrolling through some kind of list and occasionally relaying orders to the comms unit sitting on the coffee table. Courfeyrac, whose name R only knew because Jehan had yelled it several times during their argument, sat next to the one with glasses, trying not to make it stupidly obvious that he was watching the man at the computer and not the computer itself, and failing miserably.  

On the third couch sat the awkward boy with red hair and freckles, who had a laptop of his own and was showing Mlle. Fauchelevant something on it. She was looking on with mild interest, as though she didn’t understand what was going on, but she still found it mildly entertaining. R assumed they were dating, or close to it, because the awkward romantic tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The little boy was on the ground at Courfeyrac’s feet, playing what looked like a game on a tablet. The same little boy that had faced down Montparnasse. The same one that had watched a teammate die. The same one that had broken his arm and still made it all the way here. the kid was scarily independent and badass, and R made a mental note to never underestimate him.

 That just left the scary blonde one, whose name R couldn’t remember either, although his was the only one whose name R was mad about forgetting.

Because he was _gorgeous,_ with smoldering blue eyes and a perfectly shaped mouth and a hair color that could only accurately be described as _golden._ He had complimented R earlier, and R felt like he was floating for the next ten minutes.

He was in _deep,_ and he knew it, so he tried not to make it obvious, tried to watch other members of the Amis, too, and not just the blond.

But his eyes just kept straying back to the picture of beauty sitting in the armchair, looking for all the world like a king on his throne, and eventually R decided he didn’t care who noticed him staring.

He was just appreciating a masterpiece, that was all.

Beside him, the clumsy boy sighed heavily and leaned backwards, letting the computer charger fall into his lap.

R wrote, _Bored?_ and showed it to him.

The boy smiled faintly. “Just feeling kind of like a useless addition to the team right now, is all.”

_Welcome to my life._

“Nah, you’re cool and badass and stuff. You got Jehan out of there alive. You brought him here, keeping the two of you alive, and you did it all on your own. You’re awesome. Me?” The boy shrugged. “I’m just here.”

R thought about it for a moment, then wrote, _You must be alright, I mean…_

“What?”

_Well, you aren’t dead yet, right? So you must be good at something._

“I guess you’re right. But secretly, Joly and Chetta do all the work.”

_Which ones are they again?_

“Oh, sorry. Joly’s right there, and Musichetta’s beside him,” the boy said pointing them out as he said their names. “Then that’s Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, Gavroche on the ground, and Marius and Cosette being sickeningly sweet over there, and that’s Enjolras. Our leader.”

 _Enjolras._ So that was the blond god’s name.

_What about  you?_

“Bossuet. Or Lesgles. Or Laigle.” Upon seeing R’s look of bewilderment, he sighed and said, “Just call me Bossuet. Everyone does. It’s my nickname.”

_How’d you wind up with a nickname like  that?_

“Long story.”

The comms unit on the table beeped, and they all jumped.

Eponine’s voice came through.

“ _We’re all fine, nothing’s happened, and we’re almost there,”_ she said. “ _Jehan and Feuilly haven’t ripped each other apart yet, although when they do, my money’s on the ginger.”_

“Eponine, both Jehan and Feuilly have red hair,” Combeferre pointed out.

“ _Precisely. I don’t know which of them would win, so I’m making my bet broad and wide. How’re things back there?”_

“Same as when you left ten minutes ago,” Courfeyrac said with a grin.

“ _Shut up, you little shit.”_ Eponine snapped, drawing a cheerful, “Language!” from Gavroche.

“ _You, too,”_ she said to him, but there was no hate behind her words. “ _Behave, or I’ll kick your ass when I get home, got it?_ ”

Gavroche rolled his eyes. “Yes, ‘Ponine.” He went back to his game.

“ _We’re almost to where Patron-Minette’s territory begins,”_ she said, and everyone leaned forward in anticipation. “ _What exactly is the plan  from here?”_

“Get in there without being seen, snoop around a bit, tell us all the juicy details,” Musichetta said.

“Don’t get caught,” added Enjolras.

“Don’t get killed,” said Joly.

“ _Your confidence in me is overwhelming, truly,”_ Eponine said dryly, and R had to suppress a smirk.

“ _We’ll be in and out in a flash,”_ came the second comms unit, with Feuilly’s voice.

“Great,” Combeferre said. “See you tonight. Be  safe.”

“ _You too_ ,” Eponine said, and the comms cut off.

Bossuet absentmindedly played with the end of the charger cord. R began to draw lines in the corner of his  notepad. Pretty  soon, the lines turned into the rough outline of a face, and R would be lying if he tried to claim it wasn’t the blond masterpiece sitting across the room from him.

Time passed- half an hour, an hour, and no development came from the comms. Cosette went to make lunch somewhere around the forty-five minute mark and brought everyone sandwiches that they munched on for the next fifteen minutes.

When it had been an hour with still no word from Eponine or the boys, Enjolras scooted forward.

“Should we call them?” he asked. “They may need help."

Combeferre  shook his head. “If they need us, they’ll cut on the comms,” he pointed out. “Us calling them could put them at risk, especially if they’re trying to sneak through the area.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” Enjolras murmured, and leaned back in his armchair.

“You didn’t have to,” Combeferre said with a slight smile.  “That’s _my_ job.”

Courfeyrac snickered.

Just when things had settled back into a comfortable silence, the  comms units on the table all let out a horrific screeching noise.

As Combeferre and Joly both jumped up to try and fix them, the others put their hands over their ears, trying to block out the high-pitched shrieking sound.

“Could they have gone out of range?”  Joly yelled to Combeferre.

“Possibly,” he shouted back, “but I don’t think so.”

“God _dammit,_ can’t _something_ go right for once in our lives?” Courfeyrac cried.

And whether there was some divine force answering him or it was just a matter of coincidence, the noise cut off, leaving a silent room once more.

“What  was _that_ about?” Enjolras asked.

Joly and Combeferre both looked at a loss for words.

“I… don’t know,” Combeferre admitted. “Let’s see if anything else happens.”

The room waited in silence for a moment, and just when it seemed that it had been a mistake, a temporary malfunction, the middle comms unit ( _Jehan’s_ comms unit, the one they hadn't heard from yet,) crackled to life.

“Guys?” he asked, and though it was static or not, R wasn’t sure, but his voice seemed to shake. “I think we may have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry??
> 
> i'll TRY to update soon, but i havent been great about that lately so idk
> 
> thank you to all my lovely readers and supporters- y'all keep me going
> 
> time for bed now
> 
> toodles
> 
> -byrd


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which crap goes down and feuilly and jehan are literally toddlers. also, the author realizes she is a lazy bum and needs to pull it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUP AMIGOS i'm back
> 
> so funny story i have descended fully and completely into the pits of hamilton hell and i have had You'll Be Back stuck in my head for wEeKs it's been terrible (wonderful). funny thing is, the only line that's been wedged irreperably and permanently into my brain is the line where it's talking about sending fully armed batallions to remind you of my love??? and now i think that 1) my mother, 2) the cashier at kroger, 3) my siblings, and 4) the barista at starbucks, ALL OF WHOM HAVE HEARD THAT ONE LINE OVER AND OVER AGAIN, are all considering a restraining order. that or calling the asylum because Lord knows i need it. 
> 
> fun times 
> 
> this has been unnecessary details of byrd's life with byrd. tune in next time. 
> 
> so here's chapter 20. not super happy with this one, and towards the end i think they might get super OOC???????????sorry
> 
> as always, much thanks and hugs to ShippingEverything and kevin
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twenty_

“Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning forward.

No sound came from the comms unit, and suddenly Joly realized something.

“Our comms,” he said. “When we were still in the underground bunker, we had a constant stream of sound from them. Now they’re like… disconnected and shaky. What happened?”

Combeferre shrugged. “I don’t know, but I noticed that, too. Maybe it has something to do with the connection. We had better connection underground?”

“Irony. Irony everywhere,” Musichetta sighed. “What, you mean they’re like walkie-talkies?”

“Not exactly.” Combeferre picked one unit up off the coffee table and examined it thoughtfully. “They don’t have to press buttons to get word to us, but we can’t hear everything, either.”

“Maybe they just pick up loud noises?” Enjolras asked. “Can they hear us?”

“ _Loud and clear, Enj,_ ” Eponine said over the comms, and Combeferre almost dropped it in shock.

“You’re okay!” Bossuet exclaimed.

“ _I’m fine. How about you?”_

“Still alive, if that’s  what you were wondering,” Courfeyrac murmured. “What’s the problem, Jehan?”

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Joly. “Is Feuilly okay?”

” _Just dandy, Joly,”_ Feuilly assured him, and Joly let out a relieved breath.

“So what’s the problem?”

“ _Just a hypothetical question,”_ Eponine said, and Joly instantly tensed, ready for bad news. With Eponine, “hypothetical questions” usually meant “real questions she was too afraid to ask because the answer would both sadden and depress her team.”

“ _So how many members of Patron-Minette did we think there were left?”_ she asked.

“Oh, no,” Enjolras muttered, apparently connecting the dots. “How many are there, Eponine?”

“ _Just answer the question!”_ she snapped.

Gavroche scooted off the couch, mindful of his bad arm, and knelt by Combeferre’s chair to be closer to his sister’s comms unit.

“Calm dow’, Ponine,” he said. “’Ow many are there?”

“ _A lot, Gav. More than we thought. And there’s something else, too…”_

“How many are there?” Courfeyrac repeated.

Feuilly’s comms unit crackled to life. “ _A hundred, at least. Maybe more.”_

The room erupted into shouts of _what, impossible, there can’t be that many._ Gavroche remained silent, looking at Eponine’s comms.

“Wha’s th’ other news, Ponine?” he asked.

“ _Gav…_ ”

“ _Dammit¸_ just freakin’ _tell me!_ I’m not a baby an’more!”

The room went silent at that, and Gavroche’s sharp, frustrated breaths were suddenly the only audible thing.

“ _The explosion, Gav. the one at the government base.”_

“What abou’ it?” Gavroche demanded.

“ _It didn’t just let out a few innocent prisoners. It allowed for some terrible people to escape, too.”_

Gavroche sucked in a deep breath of air and, for once, looked at a loss for words.

Almost cautiously, Combeferre set Eponine’s comms unit back on the table. Gavroche followed it over and continued to stare at it, looking like someone had just yanked the world out from underneath him.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Cosette spoke. “What does she mean, Gavroche?”

“Thenardier,” Gavroche said, the shock in his eyes melting away, to be replaced by hatred, ugly and bright. “Th’ leader o’ Patron is back in th’ game.”

***

Eponine listened over the comms as Gavroche made this grave announcement, then looked back over the pile of debris she and her companions were hiding behind, at the large group of people they were spying on.

Feuilly hadn't been wrong; there were at least a hundred people assembled, all listening to a greasy-looking man who was severely malnourished and needed a shave.

Her father.

From a few hundred yards away, she couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying, probably describing his time in prison, most likely scrambling the details to make him the victim, as was his nature.

Beside her, Jehan peered over the edge of a metal beam, then shook his head.

“Where have they all been _hiding?_ ” he  asked. “And how did they survive the bombs?”

“Probably didn’t have to,” Feuilly said. “I think most of them are prisoners, recently escaped.”

“No place to go, and Thenardier’s probably offered them safety or food or something in  exchange for their support,” Eponine agreed.

“I’m confused,” Jehan said. “Did the gov-bots bomb the city before or after the rebels bombed the base?”

“Both,” said Eponine. “The gov-bots have been strategically bombing certain neighborhoods since the end of the civilized government. When the rebels took out a section of the base, letting hundreds of prisoners to freedom, the gov-bots retaliated, destroying whatever they hadn't yet and-” she shuddered, thinking of the bodies they had stumbled across on their way here, hundreds of escaped prisoners, caught in the street during the bombings “-taking out some of the escapees.”

“Looks like they missed a couple,” said Feuilly.

“Yeah, a couple,” Jehan  said with a nervous laugh. “Just a couple.”

Over her comms, Combeferre asked again if they were alright.

“We’re fine,” Feuilly said in response, stifling a yawn.

Eponine glanced at him. He clearly wasn’t. Since Bahorel  had died, he had been getting progressively worse and worse. The bags under his eyes were dark and prominent, and his hands trembled ever so slightly on the handle of his gun as he readjusted it in his belt.

The whole group had been shaken by Bahorel’s death. Of _course_ they had. He was a teammate and friend. Bossuet and Marius’ ex-law school classmate. Eponine’s drinking buddy. A confidant. A friend. A sturdy place to go to in times of trouble.

But he had been _so much more_ for Feuilly. Those two nerds had liked each other _forever,_ only coming to terms with it during the apocalypse, and just in time for half the couple to die.

So yes, Feuilly had every right to be absolutely devastated. But he hadn't slept. He probably hadn't eaten. And he hadn't smiled since their fake therapy session in the basement, which Eponine now realized was all an act.

He was slowly dying inside, and Eponine wouldn’t let that happen to the only person with whom she could truly confide in. For heaven’s sakes, he was the only person in the world (save _maybe_ Gavroche, the little snoop,) that knew she used to write poetry about Pontmercy. He wasn’t allowed to beat himself up for something he couldn’t  have possibly prevented.

“Yeah,” she said, with a long look at Feuilly. “We’re great.”

“So, guys,” Jehan said, trying for an upbeat tone. “What’s the plan?”

***

Combeferre didn’t know what to do.

Officially, Enjolras was the leader of Les Amis de l’ABC. And yet, when Jehan asked what to do next, all eyes turned to him.

He ran a hand through his hair and reached for his laptop. Courfeyrac passed it over with no comment, and the silence that accompanied it gave Combeferre pause.

He turned to look at his… What? Boyfriend? They had kissed _once,_ as Courfeyrac had so kindly pointed out earlier.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked, almost _too_ innocently.

Combeferre was aware of everyone’s eyes on them and guessed that they didn’t want any more drama today. So all he said was, “Nothing. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Courfeyrac mumbled, and Combeferre turned back towards the group, opening his laptop.

“Do you guys know where you are?” he asked, tapping impatiently as he waited for the computer to load. Feuilly’s laptop was the fastest out of all of them- a sleek machine that loaded in instants and pulled up the internet no matter how far away from the nearest connection was. But Combeferre’s wasn’t. It wasn’t _Bahorel ’s piece of shit_ bad, but it only sometimes pulled up the internet quickly. Sometimes not at all.

Combeferre didn’t have his ordinary patience. He was tired and emotionally drained and didn’t feel like waiting around for this piece of junk to load. So he felt he was perfectly justified when he snapped the lid of his laptop closed and said loudly, “Where’s Feuilly’s computer?”

“I know ‘ere it is,” Gavroche muttered. “Only thing is, woul’ Feuilly want you t’ have it?”

“I just need the internet,” Combeferre sighed, exasperated. “I’m not going to snoop through his stuff.”

“ _Damn right you aren’t,_ ” Feuilly said over the comms.

Combeferre managed to hide his smile. “Is it in the attic?”

He imagined Feuilly was nodding. “ _Window seat. The grey one’s mine.”_

“What other one do you have?” Joly asked, and then instantly looked as though he wanted to glue his mouth closed when all eyes turned towards him.

“I’m sorry, Feuilly, I didn’t mean—honest,  I didn’t, I forgot, I just-”

 _“It’s fine, Jols,”_ Feuilly said, and he sounded weary and exhausted. “ _He’s gone, and it’s irreversible. We need to get over it._ ”

(Translation: I am very much _not over it,_ but I have a tough-guy reputation to uphold and I must show no emotions. Yes, my best friend is gone, and I might as well be, too.

But that was jut Combeferre’s interpretation.)

In the midst of the silence that was quickly becoming awkward, Gavroche slipped away to get Feuilly’s computer, while Joly continued to stare at the ground and look miserable. Bossuet slipped an arm around his shoulder, and Musichetta kissed his cheek, both of which seemed to improve his mood, but Combeferre could tell he still felt bad.

The boy returned, handing the laptop to Combeferre and then backing away slowly.

Combeferre booted it up, pleased at how quickly it came up.

“ _Damn,_ Feuilly, this thing is nice,” Courfeyrac commented, right by Combeferre’s ear, and he did his best not to flinch.

“ _Don’t screw it up, Courf,”_ Feuilly said back, and Gavroche snickered.

“Alright,” Combeferre said, pulling up the satellite map. “Do you guys know where you are?”

“ _Earth,”_ Jehan said promptly. Courfeyrac snorted and tried to pass it off as a cough.

“No idea?” Combeferre sighed. “Do me a favor, then. Look at your comms units.”

There was some shuffling over the units as they did just that.

“Now switch that tiny little red switch.”

They must have done so, because all of a sudden, less than ten miles from Cosette’s house, three little blue dots appeared.

“ _What did that do?”_   Eponine asked.

“Trackers,” Enjolras mused, and Combeferre realized that he, too, was right behind the chair Combeferre was occupying.

Enjolras looked to him for confirmation. “Right? You installed trackers on the comms?”

Combeferre just nodded, watching the blue dots blinking on the screen, and the small black square that represented the rest of the Amis’ location- Cosette’s house.

Courfeyrac laughed. “You bloody genius, you,” he said excitedly, and Combeferre shoved down the fluttering feeling in his stomach when Courfeyrac beamed _right at him._

“Alright, you’re like nine miles from us,” Combeferre said, zooming out then back in to the image to be sure. “And there are a hundred members of the worst gang in this half of the world, what, near you? Are you visible to them?”

“ _No, we’re hidden,”_ Eponine confirmed. “ _They can’t see us. Thenardier, he’s in front of the crowd. He’s riling them up. This isn’t a gang meeting. This is a riot.”_

Silence followed _that_ grave statement, until Marius said, sounding surprisingly calm and measured, “So are all these people _with_ Patron-Minette, or is Thenardier trying to _convince_ them to join?”

There was quiet over the comms for a second, then Feuilly muttered, “ _Damn, Pontmercy. Remind me not to underestimate you.”_

“What’s that mean?” Marius stuttered, back to his old self.

“Nothing,” Cosette assured him quickly. “Just that that was a very intelligent question. Good job, Marius.”

Marius practically glowed at the praise, ears turning pink, and Cosette scooted a bit closer to him on the couch.

Combeferre glanced down at his laptop  screen, wondering if he was that obvious.

 _Hoping_ he wasn’t.

“ _Good question,”_ Eponine said. “ _I think…”_

She trailed off, and the living room waited in anxious silence until she got back on.

“ _I think he’s recruiting. You’re right, Pontmercy. These people aren’t the Patron-Minette type. They’re too weak and scared-looking, and..”_

“Wimpy?” Gavroche suggested.

“ _Someone hit him for me,”_ Eponine growled. Obediently, R leaned forward and swatted the boy’s shoulder. Gavroche, who had obviously been expecting a hit from Courfeyrac, judging by the angle of his body away from him, was caught off-guard and yelped as he toppled sideways.

“’Ey! New guy! Not cool,” he snapped, scooting further from R’s couch.

“ _R did it? Oh, I like him,”_ Eponine said. “ _Gav, don’t be a baby. Did he get your bad arm?”_

“…no…”

“ _You’ll live. High-five, R.”_

R smiled, leaning back into the couch cushions. Combeferre got the strangest feeling that he had just witnessed a new member orientation session. R was beaming , and several other of the Amis were shooting him approving glances.

He’d been with them only a few hours, and yet he was already being accepted into the group.

Combeferre loved his friends.

“So we think Thenardier’s trying to convince these people to join?” Enjolras asked.

“ _Yeah, that would make sense,”_ Jehan said.

“Anything we can do to stop it?” Joly asked. “I mean, we don’t want a hundred more enemies, but if we can stop them from following Thenardier….”

“ _I’m not sure there’s anything we_ can _do,”_ Eponine said. “ _It would be suicide to just run into the crowd. Thenardier’s got his entire mob around him for protection, that filthy, cowardly, son of a-”_

Musichetta cleared her throat loudly. “Might I remind you about the presence of your _kid brother_ in the room.”

“ _Ah, he’s heard worse.”_ But Eponine sounded calmer now. “ _The point is, we can just go over there and shoot Thenardier without there being consequences, the best of which would be his gang of, oh, ten angry men with guns, and the worst being getting trampled by a hundred people that hes brainwashed into following him.”_

“Well, that’s great,” Enjolras sighed. “We have to stop him.”

“ _No shit, Sherlock. How?”_

“I’m not the leader here. We’re a-”

“Give it up, Enj,” Courfeyrac said wearily.

“Screw it. Alright, what should we do? Our options are…” Enjolras bit his bottom lip. “We can _all_ come out there. Maybe if there are more of us-”

“ _Against a hundred potential enemies?”_ Jehan asked.

“Good point.”  He sighed. “So, we could bring you all back here so that you’re out of danger, and then we work out a plan?”

“ _We would have walked all the way out here for nothing,”_ Eponine pointed. “ _And we would just have to send someone else out after we made a plan.”_

“Nah, that’s a good plan, actually,” Combeferre said. “You didn’t go out there for nothing; you discovered what Thenardier’s up to. Bringing you home would enable your safety. We don’t want any more incidents. Come home.”

“ _Damn, Ferre,”_ Eponine said. “ _Way to bring out the mother hen voice on us.”_

“Nah, that was more like a dictator voice,”  Bossuet said. “He only uses it when he doesn’t want to be argued with.”

“ _No arguments here,”_ Jehan said, and both Feuilly and Eponine murmured agreement.

“Great,” sighed Combeferre, deciding to let the “dictator mother hen” comments slide. “So, if you three will start for home now, then we can-”

Scuffling on the comms unit cut him short.

“Eponine?” Enjolras asked, leaning forward. “Jehan? Feuilly? You guys alright?”

“Guys?” Courfeyrac asked.

***

Eponine was distracted.

Jehan and Feuilly were shoving each other to see over the debris pile, which was nothing new and admittedly something she had done, too, but at some point, the shoving had turned violent.

“Guys,” she tried, which proved to be futile when neither looked at her. “Feuilly. Jehan.”

Feuilly got in a lucky shoulder to Jehan’s chest and Jehan went sprawling to the ground, landing on something with a _crunch._

“Guys, seriously, we’re trying to be _quiet,_ shut up, really, stop,” she hissed, as Jehan got back up, rather _noisily,_ with a, “I’ll bloody _kill_ you.”

“I’d like to see you freaking try,” Feuilly shot back.

 _Oh no._ Eponine knew what this was. This was Feuilly’s and Jehan’s ongoing fight, which had started sometime around Jehan’s return, and hadn't died down, as they had all expected it to. Eponine suspected that some of it had to do with the fact that Jehan had watched Bahorel  die, and  Feuilly hadn't even been given that luxury. Jehan had also mentioned that he could have prevented Bahorel ’s death by coming out of hiding, which Eponine supposed Feuilly had every right to be sour about, but _seriously._ They could fight about this later.

Not _now,_ when their silence was their life. When her ex-father was standing a hundred yards away with ten of his old goons and at least a hundred potential more.

“ _Feuilly,_ ” she said, figuring that he was the more level-headed of the two. “Listen to me. We need to move. We need to go before you stupid macho idiots get us _killed._ ”

He looked at her, registering her words, but when Jehan’s fist caught him off-guard, he reacted almost unconsciously, throwing Jehan to the ground again-this time even louder, emitting a _clang_ that echoed off the surrounding junk piles.

“Shit.” Eponine glanced over the debris to confirm what she already knew- at least half the crowd’s attention was on the pile she and her companions were crouched behind.

“ _Shit._ Ferre, you there?”

“ _I’m here. What do you need? What’s happening? Are you alright?”_

“Fine-” she wedged herself in between Jehan and Feuilly “-Come _on,_ guys, you’re _friends,_ stop it- YES Combeferre we’re all fine but we aren’t _about to be_ , not if Patron-Minette freaking _finds us_ here.”

“ _Wait, what?”_ Combeferre asked. “ _What’s going on, Eponine?”_

“Nothing!” she shrieked, much too loudly, and tried to bring her voice down. “Stop it, you two! We’re leaving! Now! Let’s go! I swear, you’re like effing _toddlers…_ ”

“Who goes ‘ere?” shouted a rough, brittle voice, in an accent so much like her brother’s that Eponine almost responded.

They were trapped. Any moment now, Thenardier would show his greasy face and shoot them, or have them dragged out from behind the pile and shot in front of the crowd. He’d make a spectacle of it, especially because it was _her._ Eponine. The daughter that had used to be on his side, his perfect little bitch, now rebelling and defying everything he worked for. 

“Screw it,” she decided. “I won’t die to him. Can’t give him the satisfaction. Let’s _go!_ ”

On the last word, she grabbed Jehan and Feuilly’s hands, effectively yanking them apart and forcing them to run after her, and the three of them sprinted towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END WAS SUPER RUSHED AND OOC I'M SORRY
> 
> see also: jehan, who has just busted out of a prison base and is irreperably emotionally traumatized because of it, and feuilly, who has lost his best friend and love of his life and is very badly emotionally damaged because of it, act like toddlers and eponine is done with their bullcrap. 
> 
> angry dictator mother hen ferre gives me life yes
> 
> i realize i encorporated R into les amis super fast?? i would say i'm sorry but i figure that once they've determined that he's not a threat to them, they'd be pretty fast to accept him
> 
> also he needs to stop being "new guy" so some character relationships can happen
> 
> yes
> 
> much thanks to the insane eleven-year-olds that i watched tonight for keeping me on my feet and absolutely DESTROYING me at four-square
> 
> i mean whaaaaat i rock at four square whatchuu talkin bout son
> 
> also coffee. thank you coffee. 
> 
> and kevin. and shippingeverything.
> 
> good night friends. going to sleep now. 
> 
> *goes on tumblr*
> 
> -byrd


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author shamelessly offers up a super short chapter. as if this will make up for the wait. ~sorry~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy
> 
> so what with holidays and stuff and other stuff, i have not been super active SORRY
> 
> but here *shoves chapter forward* 
> 
> nothing really happens in this chapter and i kind of hate it but hey transtition chapters are super important, right?
> 
> right?
> 
> *nervous laughter*
> 
> FUNNY STORY FROM YOUR AUTHOR WHO IS ALLERGIC TO EVERYTHING did u know that thanksgiving is terrible for latose intolerant, gluten-free, egg-free, soy-free little people??
> 
> ...it is. 
> 
> just in case you were wondering
> 
> (it's ok. the turkey and cranberry sauce and unbuttered potatoes were delish.)
> 
> HOW WAS EVERYONE'S THANKSGIVING/NOVEMBER 26TH FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DID NOT CELEBRATE IT?
> 
> this is a pathetic chapter. i'm blaming the lack of caffeine i have had for the past three or so days
> 
> ANOTHER FUNNY STORY FROM YOUR AUTHOR WHO IS CURRENTLY VISITING RELATIVES IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE: did u know that there are no starbucks in the middle of nowhere??
> 
> ...there arent. it stinks. also, the coffee maker broke and i am v sure that my mood is reflecting this.
> 
> oh whale. 
> 
> YET ANOTHER FUNNY STORY FROM YOUR AUTHOR WHO IS V FED UP WITH PEOPLE: black friday shopping sucks because people have n o s e n s e o f p e r s o n a l s p a c e. also they steal your shoes
> 
> ...on the bright side, i found a fellow les mis fan by humming les mis in the checkout line and they exclaimed very loudly OMG IS THAT LES MISERABLES to which i responded "heck yes."
> 
> it was a very nice two-second-interaction, after which i continued to hum the same song. (it was dyhtps. jik u were curious) 
> 
> AS ALWAYS much thanks to shippingeverything and kevin. also to emily, who inspired the OTHER fic i wrote (a newsies fic, if u were wondering hinthint go check it out winkwink) YOU ALL ARE WONDERFUL LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twenty-One_

Cosette was on the edge of her seat.

She had just watched as three members of their group (including her ex-foster sister, who she hadn't spoken to in years, but she _assumed_ they were on good terms), go out into potentially hostile territory to learn gang secrets, and now Eponine and the two boys who had accompanied her were running as fast as they could towards home.

Towards _Cosette’s_ home, and suddenly she was thinking not of the three Amis coming but the several others already here, and how much danger they would all be in if the sketchiest gang in the country followed them back.

She decided to try and bring this issue to light. “Excuse me,” she said.

No one paid her any mind. They were all busy murmuring amongst themselves about what they had just heard over the comms units- the new details that Thenardier could potentially have found their friends.

“Hey,” she tried again.  Nothing. Marius, who was right beside her, looked up from his anxious discussion with Joly for a second, but returned to it just as quickly.

“Listen _up!_ ” she cried, which got her the desired audience. The entire living room full of Les Amis now had their full attention on her.

“Alright,” she sighed, and tried to compose herself. “ _Listen to me,_ all of you. Your three friends, partners, whatever, they’re coming back here, yes?”

“…Yes,” Bossuet said. “At least, we hope so. We’re trying to be optimistic here.”

“It’s not a matter of if they get back,”  Cosette said, “although of course I pray they will. It’s a matter of the dangerous drug lords they could be leading back here.”

“Damn, she’s right,” Enjolras muttered, placing his computer on the coffee table and running a nervous hand through his hair. “Thenardier as good as found them. You’d better believe he’ll be coming back this way.”

“ _Towards us,_ ” Courfeyrac said. “Shit.”

“Language,” said Musichetta. “What should we do? Leave?”

“I guess that would be the best option…” Enjolras sounded doubtful.

“We can’t,” Marius blurted out, but when everyone’s eyes fell on him, he went pink and tried to hide behind Cosette on the couch, which she found both adorable and amusing.

“I mean…” he stuttered. “We can’t leave Mademoiselle Fauchelevant here alone, to fend for herself against not only Thenardier, but whatever friends he brings.”

“Pontmercy has a point,” Courfeyrac mused, pursing his lips. “We can’t just abandon this place. Patron-Minette would trash the place, or burn it down, or-”

“ _Thank you,_ Courf,” Combeferre butted in, “for your eternal _optimism._ ”

“Ep!” Gavroche called. “’Ow’s it goin’?”

Everyone’s head turned at that, because despite the brilliance Les Amis was known for, it was sometimes up to the most unlikely of people to solve their problems.

Like ten-year-olds.

“ _Doing great, Gav, thanks,”_ Eponine panted, and it was instantly painfully clear that she was not, in fact, alright. Her breath was coming out in short gasps, and her words were choppy and cut off. She was exhausted, and the fact that she had been starved for half a year and hadn't had adequate exercise during that time suddenly resurfaced in everyone’s minds.

“Ponine,” Gavroche said. “Is th’ old man behind y’all?”

“ _I don’t know, probably, Gav!”_ Eponine cried, sounding desperate.

There was a pause, then Jehan said, also sounding incredibly out of breath, “ _So what I’m hearing is, we’re leading a murderous scoundrel back to Cosette’s home? We can’t do that!”_

“That’s what I said!” said Marius loudly resurfacing from behind Cosette, but almost immediately hiding again.

“ _We’ve got to lead Thenardier away,”_ Eponine panted. _“Take him somewhere far, far away, so he won’t find you all.”_

“At the risk of your own lives?” Joly asked. “No way.”

“ _Well, we need to do something,”_ Feuilly said. _“We’re almost home.”_

“I have an idea,” Cosette said suddenly. “The secret room.”

“The one downstairs?” Musichetta asked. When Cosette nodded, she turned to Enjolras. “It’ll work. It’s hidden. They couldn’t find us.”

“Yes, but what about Feuilly, Jehan, and Eponine?” Enjolras asked, agitated.

“They could…” Combeferre hesitated. “Eponine, how far ahead of them do you estimate you are?”

“ _I have no actual idea, Combeferre. Some of us aren’t brilliant judges of distance  like you.”_

 _“I mean, we can’t see them,”_ Feuilly said, “ _if that means anything.”_

“But they’re definitely following you?” Enjolras asked. “I mean, we don’t want to cause a false alarm if none of us are in danger.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Combeferre reminded him gently. “And if there turns out to be no threat, then it will have been good practice for if we ever need to do it again.”

“Oh don’t _jinx_ it, Ferre,” groaned Courfeyrac.

“But that is an excellent idea,” put in Musichetta. “And if they can’t  even _see_ Thenardier, they’ll have enough time to sneak around back and join us in the basement.”

Enjolras considered it. “There are a lot of ways that could go wrong. Thenardier could catch up before they get home. He could watch them come in through the back door and thoroughly search the house.”

“Or bomb it,” put in Courfeyrac, “or burn it to the ground.”

“Courf, you are truly a ray of sunshine today what is _wrong_?” Combeferre asked, turning to him.

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac said innocently. “Just my friends are in danger and the guy I like hates my guts, apparently. Continue.”

“Wait, _what-_ ”

“Later,” Cosette and Enjolras cut him off at the same time.

“It’s worth a shot, despite the risks,” Enjolras said.

“It’ll be worth it,” Cosette promised, standing. “Let’s go.”

***

Feuilly reluctantly agreed to the plan, but he didn’t like it.

He just didn’t see any way this could work. If Thenardier _did_ catch up to them (which he thought very likely; all three of them were exhausted and tiring quickly), then they would be killed, and Thenardier could probably figure out where they were trying to go. Cosette’s house wasn’t exactly hidden. Quite the contrary- it was very out in the open, in the middle of nowhere, yes, but not hidden.

“You’re all squared away?” Eponine asked, as the big white house came into view.

Combeferre answered in the positive, and Feuilly took a deep breath, wincing at the slight wheeze that came with it. He’d been asthmatic as a boy, but it had mostly cleared up now. The only time it was difficult to breathe was when he _really_ pushed himself, which gave him some clue of how far and long they’d been on the move.

“They’re safe in the secret room,” Eponine murmured to Jehan and Feuilly, just in case they hadn't heard. “We just need to sneak around back and get in there, too.”

“Preferably _before_ Patron’s goons reach us,” Jehan put in.

Feuilly rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to waste precious oxygen, and besides, he hadn't forgotten that his and Jehan’s fighting was what had gotten them into this predicament.

He wished he was sorry for pushing Jehan, but really, all he was sorry for was risking the team’s lives.

And for reactivating his asthma.

But not for pushing that _asshole_ who’d spoken of Bahorel ’s death as though it didn’t matter. Who mentioned that he could have prevented it. Who insulted Bahorel ’s name and his life.

Who Feuilly wanted to _kill,_ but he couldn’t, because he was a decent person, and he and Jehan had once been friends.

They approached the house, and Feuilly actually made it onto the porch before he remembered that they were going around back. As he pounded back down the steps, something caught his eye, and he stopped to peer into the distance, where, sure enough, he could see a small group coming their way.

Although he couldn’t make out individual figures, it didn’t take a genius to know it was Thenardier and his crew. Most likely armed. Very dangerous.

And on the warpath.

Feuilly jumped down the last two porch stairs and caught up with his two companions.

“Thenardier,” he said through another wheeze ( _damn_ his awful lungs). “I can see him.”

“All the more reason to speed up,” Eponine murmured, sounding just as out-of-breath. Even through her gorgeous olive complexion, Feuilly could see that she was bright red in the face.

He looked to Jehan as they ran around back, noting his pink cheeks and slight gasps accompanying his breaths.

The long run had taken a toll on all of them. It was good that they hadn't been further away, or Patron-Minette would have caught (and most likely killed) them by now.

The back door led into the kitchen, which they snuck through on silent feet. Even though Thenardier was still a long way off, it felt wrong to disturb the peace and quiet of the house.

“Lock the back door behind you,” Eponine hissed.

Jehan snorted. “That won’t stop them for long. These people are master thieves and criminals. They know how-”

“To pick a lock,” snapped Eponine. “Yes. So do I. You forget that this is my father we’re talking about. He taught me everything I know, as much as I hate it, and we need to adequately prepare. Hand me that chair.”

Feuilly managed to hide his smile at Jehan’s look of indignation as he passed Eponine one of the metal chairs. She promptly deadbolted the door closed, chain-locked it, then wedged the chair under the doorknob.

She snapped her fingers at Feuilly. “The windows.”

He’d considered that, but he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do. “What about them?”

“They need to be- here, I’ll show you.” Eponine moved to one of the windows and pulled the blinds all the way down, wedging the bottom blind under the windowsill.

“Much harder to get in now,” Feuilly observed, as he did the same to the other kitchen window.

“Exactly,” Eponine agreed, then turned to Jehan. “Go downstairs and make sure they don’t need anything while we’re still up here.”

Jehan vanished down the basement steps, and Eponine looked at Feuilly. “We need to move fast. Find all the windows you can and shove the blinds underneath like I did. I’ll get the front door. _Go._ ”

Feuilly jolted into action, a kind of panic setting into his body like he’d never experienced before. He supposed it was the result of having his life on the line, but it was more than that. They were _expecting_ Thenardier and Patron-Minette and whatever hell they brought with them. And they had no plan, other than to sit in the basement in the hopes of waiting it out. In the hopes that Thenardier _wouldn’t_ do what he normally did and cause havoc.

He didn’t like the plan. Not one bit. But he wasn’t in charge, and he didn’t have a better idea to contribute.

Once he was finished with all the windows, Eponine was waiting by the basement door, a bag in her arms full of things that Jehan must have requested. Things that the others, already in the secret room downstairs, must have forgotten and then remembered in the nick of time.

“Ready?” Eponine asked him.

“Do I have to answer that?”

She laughed. Maybe she thought he was kidding.

“C’mon, it won’t  be so bad. Like a giant sleepover, with all your friends.”

“Please just kill me now, before I go down there and do just that to Prouvaire.”

Her face clouded. “What are you two even _fighting_ about? Is it some macho-man, who-is-greater thing? Or are you actually arguing about something.”

“He dishonored my best friend’s name to my face,” Feuilly spat. “He watched Rel die and he didn’t do _anything._ ”

Eponine nodded slowly, then reached for his hand, which he reluctantly accepted.

“You know he would have done something if he thought he could. Monty could have just shot him, too, and then where would we be?”

“With that jerk dead? Better off.”

“You don’t mean that,” Eponine said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, a grave reminder that he needed to pick his words more carefully.

“You’re  right. I don’t,” he admitted. “I just… I miss him a lot.”

“I know, Feuilly. I know.” Eponine squeezed his hand, then gestured down the stairs with her other hand.

“Shall we go?”

“I _suppose…_ ”

“Come on, drama queen. Let’s go.”

And with one more hand-squeeze, the two made their way down the stairs to their new prison, Eponine locking the door tightly behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feuilly & eponine bromance is v important fight me on this
> 
> this chapter was completed while sobbing my eyes out over Stay Alive (Reprise) because why not?? (shrugging emoji)
> 
> also: i am descending deeper and deeper into hamilton hell. send help. or hamilton tickets. 
> 
> this chapter was also completed while watching House Hunters bc i am HGTV trash
> 
> have no fear (brooklyn's here) no but seriously don't worry i will have a jehan feuilly fight soon. i need it as much as you. (OOOH what if it happens when they're all crammed in the secret room and so they have n o w h e r e t o g o to escape each other *evil laughter*)
> 
> dramatic sigh.
> 
> one can get tired of turkey. 
> 
> this has been Random Ramblings With Byrd. Tune in next time.
> 
> -byrd


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which sign language is learned and cosette is cooler than any of u

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gabe goodman voice* IM ALIVE 
> 
> i have returned after a long period of Telling Myself I Would Get Crap Done And Then Not Getting Said Crap Done, during which i joined the track team (why) which you will hear me complain about three times a day, and became irreversibly and eternally obsessed with hamilton. 
> 
> oops
> 
> i have consumed so many hersheys kisses tonight that i think that there is now milk chocolate in my bloodstream
> 
> aaaand much of that time where i was Not Getting Said Crap Done was spent writing tiny little oneshots for the newsies fandom
> 
> which i might put on here at a later date 
> 
> but yeah its a good thing i've got all my ff saved to a flashdrive bc idk what the school admin would think of all this if i saved it to the school laptop
> 
> "wtheck is sprace"
> 
> kevin, my dear sweet precious friend (who also happens to be on crutches and i have made as many crutchie jokes as possible in the past three weeks) HAS NOT reaD ThiS. at least not up to date i think they're on like chapter twelve??
> 
> screw u kevin.
> 
> jk i wuv u. less than three, bae
> 
> I WOULD LIKE TO THANK THEM REGARDLESS FOR ALL THEIR SUPPORT (and for hitting me with said crutches whenever their butt of a friend makes a crutch joke)
> 
> also to lydia, without whom and her amazing, inspiring comments, this would not be as long of a thing as it is
> 
> SPEAKING OF WHICH
> 
> i meant to make this like twenty chapters and end it
> 
> *loud laughing*
> 
> *continued laughter*
> 
> *laughter turns hysterical as i look towards the future and see no discernable end for this*
> 
> it'll end eventually
> 
> right??
> 
> here's chapter... something. i've lost track. (this is an issue)
> 
> HEY GUYS SCREW WHAT AO3'S RECORD SAYS THIS FIC IS EXACTLY 77,777 WORDS ON MY WORD DOCUMENT AND THAT PLEASES ME GREATLY
> 
> thank u that will be all
> 
> here goes
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

Enjolras was about to lose his goddamn mind.

They had been in the hidden room in Mademoiselle Fauchelevant’s basement less than an hour and he was already ready to kill someone.

Because it hadn't occurred to any of them that thirteen people might, just _might,_ be uncomfortable in a space meant for five or six.

Okay, so they weren’t _terribly_ cramped. Gavroche had taken up residence on the mattress with Courfeyrac. Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet were in another one of their cuddle piles, which ordinarily, Enjolras would have called out, but they were only taking up the space of one person, so he really couldn’t criticize. Combeferre was sitting next to the mattress, close enough to hold Courfeyrac’s hand, and Enjolras was beside him, back pressed against the wall. Cosette and Marius were on either side of the door, which wouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice- they weren’t exactly Les Amis’ top defense- but when Cosette had stubbornly insisted that she deserved the spot by the door, what with “all they had put her through,” but Enjolras had caught her smile even as she said the words.

R was sitting beside the mini fridge, legs tucked up to his chest although there was plenty of room for him to stretch them out. He seemed to want to take up as little space as possible, curling into the tiniest ball, making the least possible amount of noise. (Enjolras wasn’t sure what his deal was- whether he couldn’t talk or he just chose not to or what, but to be honest, R’s silence was the reason Enjolras kept forgetting he was there.)

When Feuilly, Jehan, and Eponine arrived, they filled in wherever they could- Feuilly beside R by the mini fridge, Eponine with Courfeyrac and her brother on the mattress, and Jehan by the door, next to Cosette (supposedly to help defend the door; Enjolras thought it was more to be as far away from Courfeyrac as possible), and unfortunately, this put him right next to Feuilly, which neither of them looked thrilled about.

So they weren’t _crammed_ into the hidden room, but there wasn’t exactly elbow room, either. Enjolras was right next to Combeferre, which he didn’t mind, and Marius, which he only minded because he smelled odd- like freshly baked bread and was that _perfume?_

Gavroche sighed from his spot in the corner of the room, on top of the mattress. “Now what?”

It was almost funny, how many times that question had been asked in the past few days. It was even funnier how no one ever seemed to have an answer for it.

“Now,” said Enjolras with a nervous snort and a hand through his hair, “we wait.”

“Waiting seems to be all we _do,_ ” Feuilly said, sounding aggravated.

“I know,” Enjolras said with a tiny smile, because he understood, he really did. It sucked to wait around and do nothing when there were enemies to take out, things to do, bases to hack, people to free, governments to overthrow.

 _A friend to properly bury,_ Enjolras thought with a start, as he realized that in all the commotion, Bahorel  had never gotten the funeral he deserved. They had meant to bury him today, but of course that wasn’t going to happen, what with their preparations to hide and the actual hiding and Thenardier on the hunt and—

 _Thenardier._ Bahorel’s body was still out back. If Patron-Minette found him, there was no telling what they would do to him.

He must have gone rigid, because suddenly Combeferre had a hand on his arm, looking concerned. “You alright?”

 _No._ “Yeah, fine.”

“That’s a filthy lie and we both know it.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, then decided against it. Combeferre would just see right through it and besides, everyone in the room could hear them. This was a conversation for another time.

Assuming they all didn’t burn or get blown up or killed, that is.

 _Optimistically,_ Enjolras thought. _We’re trying to think optimistically._

Combeferre rubbed his arm gently. “We’ll be fine, E.”

Enjolras turned to him, frowning. “Are you a mind-reader, or am I just that obvious?”

“It’s not _that_ obvious…”

“Ferre-bear,” put in  Courfeyrac, “ _that_ was a filthy lie and we _all_ know it.” He turned to Enjolras. “You are extremely obvious, _mon ami._ ”

Enjolras huffed and Combeferre unsuccessfully tried to bite back his smile.

R sighed and stretched out his legs for the first time. Enjolras watched as he patted his waistband, then searched the floor around him. He was looking for something. _What?_

He tapped Feuilly’s shoulder and made some kind of gesture that Enjolras didn’t quite catch.

“Eponine,” Feuilly called. She looked up.

R made the same gesture- like he was writing on his hand.

“What is that?” Eponine asked.

He did it again.

“Damn,” she cursed. “Your notebook.”

He nodded.

“Where is it?” Feuilly asked.

R shrugged and looked to Eponine. She bit her thumbnail, obviously thinking hard.

“I think it’s upstairs,”  she finally said.

“You can’t go get it,” Enjolras blurted, and all eyes turned to him.

“I know,” sighed Eponine. “It’s just… that was his way of communicating with us.”

“Do you know sign language?” Feuilly asked.

R shook his head, twisting his two fingers together to form the sign for _R,_ then shrugged. That was clearly all he knew.

“I could teach you,” Feuilly volunteered. “I mean, just the basic signs. Nothing too fancy. Just so you can talk to us.”

“You should teach _all_ of us, Feuilly,” Combeferre suggested.

“Good idea.” Feuilly ran a hand through his hair, then seemed to realize that all eyes were on him. He went pink in the face. “Um, now?”

“Why not?” Enjolras asked, considering it. It was time-consuming, which they all needed desperately right now. And it was quiet, which was also essential, and it wasn’t pointless. They would actually need it.

When he voiced this thought aloud, Combeferre nodded. “That’s right, now would be an opportune time for this.”

“Okay. Um, do any of you know anything about sign language?” Feuilly asked.

R made his _R_ sign again.

Eponine snorted. “I used to know, like, my name. That’s it.”

Combeferre scratched his chin and admitted he knew a few signs.

The rest of them confessed that they didn’t know much, but Marius hesitantly raised a hand.

“I know it,” he said bashfully, ears turning red.

“The whole language?” Feuilly asked. Marius nodded.

“I, ah, took it in high school,” he said.

“ASL wasn’t offered in high school,” Eponine said, frowning. “Was it?”

“Um, no,” Marius said, sounding embarrassed, as though he were confessing his deepest secrets. “I sort of, er, taught myself using internet tutorials and things like that. Yeah.”

Feuilly considered this, then moved his hands quickly. It took Enjolras a moment to realize he was signing.

Without a moment of hesitation, Marius fired a sign back, and Feuilly laughed delightedly. “You _do_ know it! This is how- how Bahorel  and I used to communicate in class. Notes were too easily found out, and his mum was deaf, so I learned it for her and to talk to him In class.”

His face had gone cloudy, the way it always did lately when he mentioned his dead friend. Enjolras secretly hoped that Feuilly didn’t come to the same realization that he had- that Bahorel ’s body was still out back, vulnerable and practically _waiting_ for Patron-Minette to come and mess with it. Feuilly wouldn’t be able to stand it. He would go out and risk his life for the honor of his best friend, and Enjolras would have to hold him back.

He didn’t want to have to do that. He didn’t want to see the betrayal on Feuilly’s face and the heartbreak in his voice, so he sat and hoped, _prayed,_ that Feuilly didn’t figure it out.

“So this is what, your eighth language?” Courfeyrac said. “Which, by the way, I only figured out about the first seven when you panicked in the face of a pretty girl and broke into _all seven at once._ Anything else up your sleeve, Pontmercy?”

Marius had been turning progressively more and more red, and now he quite resembled a tomato.

“No,” he said quietly. “That’s it.”

“ _Eight languages?”_ Cosette asked, with an incredulous look thrown at Marius.

Enjolras thought that if he got any redder, he would be nearly purple.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, my grandfather was pretty adamant that I learned French and English growing up, but he specifically told me to steer clear of German or Russian, calling them savage languages, so I, ah, learned both in a matter of a year.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Atta boy, Pontmercy!”

“Yeah, well.” Marius picked at a loose thread on his shirt sleeve. “And then I learned Spanish and Japanese in high school, and I sort of… taught myself ASL and Latin, so, yeah.”

Cosette just looked at him in awe. “That takes some… _serious_ dedication, Marius.”

Marius now looked as though he were trying to impersonate an eggplant with the shade of his cheeks. “Thanks? I mean, thanks. Thanks.”

Eponine coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like, “ _Get a room,”_ but when Enjolras turned to look at her, she was innocently examining her nails, and Gavroche was pink in the face from holding in laughter.

“Okay, I suck at teaching people things but okay,” Feuilly said, exhaling audibly. “I’ll teach you the alphabet first.”

And letter by letter he signed the entire alphabet out, waiting until everyone had signed it back to move on to the next one. Slowly, each member of Les Amis grew a slight understanding of the letters, until they could each sign their names and Feuilly had never looked more pleased.

Gavroche and R both picked up sign language remarkably fast, with Combeferre and Joly close behind them. Everyone else stumbled their way through their names a few times and decided to take a break and listen for any sounds of activity from outside.

While R and Gavroche signed things across the room to each other that made them both laugh (well, Gavroche laughed, and R’s eyes lit up in that super attractive way that meant he was laughing on the inside and _oh_ that should not have been at hot as it was), Marius and Cosette listened with ears pressed to the door for any signs of life out there.

“Anything?” Combeferre asked, after a tense moment of silence broken only by Gavroche’s snickering at a (probably very dirty) sign that R had just made.

“No,” said Cosette, looking worried. “Don’t you think we should have heard something by now? The gang in the house, maybe destroying things, looking for us?”

“Maybe they passed the house by,” Joly suggested.

Musichetta hummed. “That’s a nice thought, Jols, but I’m nearly positive they saw Eponine and her group enter the house. If I know Patron-Minette,” and here she snuck a glance at Eponine, “not that I do. Not well, anyways. But from what I do know, they won’t stop until they’ve hunted down their prey. We’ve been a thorn in their side since before the end of the government. You’d better believe that they’ll take any opportunity they can to kill us.”

Silence followed this gloomy statement, until Eponine sighed and said, “You’re right, Chetta. I don’t like it, but you’re right. They should be here by now.”

“Maybe they are,” said Feuilly, “and they’re just waiting to see if they can hear where we’ve hidden.”

 _That_ frightened even Gavroche into silence.

“You think they know we’re hidden?” Bossuet asked.

“They’ve got to,” Enjolras said, frustrated once more with the holes in this not very well-thought-out plan. “People don’t vanish into thin air, and we have nowhere to go.”

“ _Thank you,_ Enjolras, for that lovely prediction of our doom,” Eponine snapped. “You’re the leader. Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging us?”

“That’s Courf’s job,” Enjolras grumbled. “I don’t do ‘encouraging’.”

“That much is obvious,” Courfeyrac sighed.

“So we wait for them, as they’re waiting for us to reveal ourselves, and we have to trust that they aren’t incredibly patient and will just wait us out indefinitely and when we finally _do_ come out of hiding we just have to hope that they aren’t in hiding, waiting to ambush us and slit all our throats?”

Everyone turned to stare at Jehan, because up until this point he had been more or less quiet.

“That’s a… grim outlook on it,” Combeferre said slowly.

R signed something. His hands shook a little bit, and even Enjolras could tell that the signs weren’t perfect, but he seemed to get the message across to Feuilly.

Feuilly nodded. “We should wait a while, but eventually we need to leave this place.”

“ _Why?_ ” Courfeyrac asked. “This place is, like, equipped to take us through an apocalypse. Why would we need to _ever_ leave?”

“Eventually, we’ll run out of food,” Cosette said thoughtfully. “The food in the pantry and fridge should last about a month, but we can’t go a month without exercise or using the bathroom, and our water will go much faster. We need to get out of here soon. As soon as we know that Patron-Minette is gone, preferably.”

“Do we know if they were ever here?” Enjolras wondered aloud. “I mean, how can we tell if they were ever here for sure?”

“Easy,”  Gavroche said. “W’ go upstairs, an’ if th’ house looks like a tornado hit it, they was ‘ere.”

“You’re so funny,” Eponine snapped.

“Eponine, is there any way we can tell _from in here_ if they’re gone?” Joly asked.

“I mean…”  Eponine bit her lip thoughtfully. “Patron-Minette is full of a bunch of proud, boastful people. If they’re here, about to screw shit up, they’ll let us know. So no, I don’t think they’ve arrived, or if they have, they haven’t reached the basement yet.”

“Maybe they didn’t find the basement,” Bossuet said hopefully. “Maybe they’re already gone, and they think we’re gone, so they keep going.”

“Okay, Boss,” Courfeyrac murmured, but it was clear that no  one believed it.

“How much longer should we give them?” asked Marius. “Before we- I mean, before someone decides that we need to go out there and get stuff and go to the bathroom and—I mean, how long before we risk it?”

Multilingual? Yes.

A huge puppy who had trouble with English, _one of his native languages,_ sometimes? Also yes.

Cosette put a hand on his arm, which seemed to calm him down. “We’ll give it another hour. How does that sound?”

When no one raised any objections, Enjolras nodded. “An hour it is, then.”

***

The next hour was one of the longest of Feuilly’s life, excluding, of course, the time spent waiting for Bahorel  and Gavroche to get home.

He spent the hour alternately teaching R new signs, just little things he would need to carry on everyday conversations, and ignoring Jehan, who was beside him.

In the corner, Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet were talking quietly. Gavroche was silent for once, signing things to himself with his good hand as he reclined on the mattress, most likely upon the orders of Eponine, who was chatting with Courfeyrac. Combeferre and Enjolras were talking strategy, and Marius and Cosette were sending adoring looks at each other across the doorway ( _seriously,_ Feuilly thought, _could they get any more obvious)._

And Jehan was just sitting there, staring off into space, looking all innocent and angelic with his  bright eyes and hair that he’d managed to put into a tiny braid despite the choppiness. He also looked like a serious badass, with a wild, dangerous look in those pretty eyes and cuts and bruises littering the visible parts of his body. He’d been through hell and back to get here, to get home, and it was clear all over his body, but most prominently on his face, where one eye was nearly swollen closed and  a long scrape ran along the underside of his jaw, vanishing into his hair.

He was beautiful. And badass.

And Feuilly wanted to _punch_ him.

Because Jehan was an infuriating son of a _bitch_ that could have stopped Bahorel  from dying. If Jehan had stepped in ( _surely_ Bahorel , a brute of a guy, and Jehan, a lithe, fit person, could have taken Montparnasse together, even if R and Gavroche hadn't helped), then Bahorel  wouldn’t be gone. Bahorel  would be _sitting next to him,_ laughing and joking. They could be signing back and forth right now, teaching R new things or even just talking to each other.

Feuilly could be _smiling,_ which he was sure he hadn't done, at least not for real, since his best friend’s death.

R signed something to him.

Feuilly frowned. “What?”

R made the same sign again, but slower, as if he knew he had it wrong.

“Are you trying to ask me _what’s wrong?”_ Feuilly asked.

_Not right?_

“Not right,” he snorted. “You just told me to call you.”

_No no no no!_

“I get it,” he said. “It’s alright. Easy mistake to make. But no, nothing’s wrong.”

“No, I’m not!” Feuilly said loudly, then lowered his voice. “Just… there’s a lot going on right now. I’m a little stressed out, is all.”

R scrunched up his face in concentration, then linked his two pointer fingers together.

“Friend,” Feuilly said aloud.

R made a slashing motion across his throat, which wasn’t exactly sign language, but Feuilly got the gist of it.

“Death?” he guessed. “Dead?”

R nodded, then made the two signs again.

“Friend dead?” Feuilly asked. “Oh. Dead friend. Bahorel .”

R nodded vigorously, then signed _Call me_ again.

Or… _What’s wrong._ It was probably _What’s wrong_?

“Is Bahorel what’s wrong?” Feuilly asked, then, when R confirmed it, shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. Maybe. Definitely?”

R let out a huff, probably meant to be sarcastic and annoyed, but it was a mangled, horrible sound. Not for the first time, Feuilly wondered what exactly had been done to R to make him mute like this.

Perhaps it would be insensitive to ask.

Screw it.

“So why can’t you speak?” he asked, and he noticed the last few conversations among the rest of the Amis tapering off. No one wanted to miss this part.

R made a few jumbled signs that even Feuilly couldn’t begin to decipher.

“Was it the gov-bots?” Eponine asked quietly.

Without turning to her, R nodded. His face was void of expression, and Feuilly imagined that if he had a voice, it would be gravelly and low as he tried to convey what he was thinking.

“What did they do?” whispered Feuilly. R’s face went dark, and Feuilly recognized the expression. It was the same one _he_ always made when Bahorel  was brought up.

It was the face of someone who didn’t want to talk about what they had lost.

R attempted a few more scrambled signs, then just made a grabbing motion at his throat.

“Did they…” Courfeyrac seemed hesitant to voice the thought aloud.

Thankfully, R seemed to understand. He made the sign for _break._ They had broken his voice.

Well… sometimes sign language was painfully accurate.

Feuilly opened his mouth to try to say something reassuring, something he wasn’t sure he could do, when Eponine rose from her spot on the edge of the mattress. She made her way over to R and squeezed in between him and the fridge, pressing Feuilly even closer to Jehan, but he didn’t complain.

She put an arm around R, and it was so out-of-character (Feuilly had seen her hug her brother exactly twice, both times when he had just returned from mortal danger), that everyone went dead silent.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered in R’s ear, and suddenly Feuilly felt as though he were intruding on a private moment between two ex-prisoners. No one else knew hat they had gone through except Gavroche, and he had gone so quiet that –Feuilly checked, and, yes—he was asleep on the mattress.

Well, and Jehan. Jehan had been a prisoner, too. But Feuilly wasn’t prepared to show him any sympathy yet. Nor was he moving so that the brat could join in R’s and Eponine’s hug.

They stayed like that, in silence, Eponine holding R and trying  to hide her tears, until the hour was up.

Feuilly was almost relieved as they packed up their few belongings and Cosette slid the secret door open. Everyone flinched, expecting gunfire to start peppering the walls, people to start dropping, but everything was quiet.

Cosette went out first, looked around the dance studio, then turned back to the others. “Empty,” she confirmed, and they all came out.

As a group, they walked cautiously up the stairs, a still-asleep Gavroche on Feuilly’s back. When Enjolras swung open the door to upstairs, they all flinched. Although the door was silent (bless Madeleine and Cosette and their brilliant foreshadowing and preparedness), they were all still expecting to be shot upon sight. They were all expecting Patron-Minette to be awaiting them.

Which proved to be untrue, as a thorough sweep of the house told them. When they convened in the living room, each person reported what the lack of gunshots had already told them- that Patron-Minette was gone. Gone, or they had never been here.

Feuilly let a (now awake) Gavroche onto the couch as they gathered.

“Really?” Combeferre asked, a skeptical look on his face.

“I mean…” Eponine said. Her hand was, and had been, clasped around R’s for the entirety of the search, and Feuilly doubted she ever planned on letting go. “If Patron-Minette didn’t think there was anything to gain here…”

Enjolras was watching them with an odd expression, his eyes flitting to their joined hands and back. _Oh boy. This could be fun to watch play out._

“Nobody?” Courfeyrac asked, looking around. When everyone answered in the affirmative, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Then we’re alright.”

“Not quite,” said a voice from the kitchen doorway, and everyone spun so quickly, it was almost comical. Feuilly’s hand was on his gun before he was aware of it.

Leaning against the doorframe, looking completely at ease despite the at least four weapons trained on him, was-

“’Parnasse,” Gavroche spat with disgust.

“Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *more hysterical laughter that turns slightly maniacal as i write the last few sentences of this chapter*
> 
> ...surprise?
> 
> he has a purpose, dont worry
> 
> i'd like to call my autobiography either Well, That Didn't Work OR You Know You're Addicted To Caffeine When The School Cafe Barista Knows Your Name, Order, And Where You Usually Sit
> 
> the barista is not hard on the eyes, either
> 
> to conclude, yes
> 
> and i need sleep
> 
> i made a gingerbread house today guys and it was pretty fab and then the dog ate my sister's so now mine is hidden away for the safety of the gingerbread men and their peace and tranquility of life and mind. 
> 
> it's hidden
> 
> *tangled rapunzel voice* somewhere you'll ~never~ find it
> 
> time to use the sleep
> 
> *goes on tumblr instead* (im @to-the-giant-furniture-wall come yell at me i love talking to people)
> 
> *waves awkwardly*
> 
> *backs away*
> 
> -byrd


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which negotiations are made, arguments break out, monty is an ass, and we all aspire to be cosette. but really, what else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i'm back
> 
> so i'm on winter break now which is YES and i'll have a lot more time to write (read: i have no social life and will spend days at a time writing with little regard for the rest of the world)
> 
> but the fam is having a party tonight so they're getting the house ready and i'm hiding in my room with the dog 
> 
> he's scared of the vacuum
> 
> i dont have a good excuse like that i just dont like cleaning
> 
> but here's chapter... 23? i think? 
> 
> ao3 and i number the chapters differently bc i started with a prologue which sucks but *shrugs* ya know
> 
> much thanks to kevin the crutch who will probably hit me with said crutches when they read that but THANKS BAE LESS THAN THREE
> 
> also to lydia, who understands that small children rock at four square and it is unfair (I lost a four square torny yesterday and am still sore about it can u tell)
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twenty-Three_

Musichetta had never wished for a teammate to be back from the dead so badly before in her life.

Because at the sight of the man who had killed Bahorel , Feuilly made a noise somewhere between a growl and a hiss and leapt at him. And since Bahorel , big, strong, reasonable Bahorel , wasn’t there to pull him back, to hold him back from ripping Montparnasse apart and to explain why exactly that was _not a good idea,_ Feuilly was on top of Montparnasse, on the floor, for a god thirty seconds before Montparnasse recovered from his shock and shoved him off.

Feuilly wasn’t a weak person, but he was quite skinny, and at Montparnasse’s push, he went sprawling, landing at Musichetta’s feet, only to jump to his feet again.

He looked like he might jump the leader of Patron-Minette again, so Musichetta put a hand on his arm. Eponine’s hand moved from his hand to his shoulder, where Musichetta could see her squeeze it purposefully. It was a warning.

So instead of physically attacking Montparnasse again, Feuilly struggled against the girls’ holds and spat insults at him, and everyone was so shocked, so terrified of this person in front of them that had the power to rip their group apart with a single squeeze of a trigger, that it took a few seconds for anyone to react.

It was Combeferre, level-headed Combeferre, who steadied his gun hand and kept his weapon pointed at Montparnasse. “Why are you here?” he asked, over Feuilly’s freaking out in the corner.

“Why, to say hello, of course!” said Montparnasse with a winning smile, marred by the blood leaking from his nose and into his mouth, staining his teeth red.

“Literally no one believes that,” Eponine growled. “Get out before one of us shoots you, you filthy sewer rat.”

“That’s no way to treat an old friend, Ponine,” Montparnasse said, wiping his nose and succeeding only in smearing blood across his face.

Feuilly had stopped yelling and was now begging Musichetta and Eponine to let him go.

“Please,” he said, over and over again. “Please, _please,_ Ponine, Chetta, Please. Let me go. I won’t kill him, I swear. I’ve got to-“

He was becoming more and more hysterical by the minute, which scared Musichetta more than any crime lord could. Feuilly was smart, and calm, and generally quite wise. He didn’t make rash decisions like jumping a (probably armed) murderer. He didn’t provoke more anger from said murderer, and he didn’t threaten people with death.

At least, not until now.

Because the crying, struggling boy wasn’t anyone that Les Amis recognized.

And that was  beyond scary.

Montparnasse swiped again at his nose, which only spread the blood in an arc across his face and made him look like even more of a madman.

“Believe me, I’m not here to kill you,” he said, giving up on his nose. “If I was, at least half of you would be dead already.”

That gave even Combeferre pause, because while the words were harsh, they rang true. Montparnasse had the power to kill and destroy as easily as  he could breathe. As easily as he could smile.

“Then why are you here?” Enjolras demanded, finally having the sense to raise his own gun.

“Why, to talk, of course,” Montparnasse spread his hands in a _friends! Let’s chat!_ manner.

“None o’ us wanna talk t’ _you_ ,” Gavroche spat.

“Rude.” Montparnasse’s easy smile didn’t drop, which was uneasy enough, but then he began to walk towards them, and as a group, collectively, they all scrambled backwards, except for Gavroche, who was confined to the couch because of his injury.

Montparnasse took his handicap and inability to move as an advantage, and got right up in Gavroche’s face, causing Eponine to step forward protectively, although not enough to release her hold on Feuilly’s shoulder.

“I think that you’ll find that I have a lot of interesting things to say,” said Montparnasse, and Gavroche, brave little thing that he was, didn’t even flinch.

“Especially once you learn that I am the sole reason that Patron-Minette, led by _your father, petit,_ didn’t burn this house to the ground. They know you’re here. What they don’t know is that _all_ of you are here. They think that the little group that they chased here-“ and now Montparnasse leaned back, out of Gavroche’s face, to glare menacingly at Eponine, Feuilly, and Jehan all in turn, “-has moved on. They went after them, further into the countryside, and left me behind to deal with the rest of you.”

“Why should we believe you?” asked Musichetta. “You’re _part_ of Patron-Minette. You’re, like, the second-in-command. Why should we listen to a word that comes out of your mouth?”

“Because I’m not _here_ to attack you,” Montparnasse said again. “I’m here to help.”

He raised his hand and tried to continue speaking, made difficult by the at least four _“Bullshit”_ s fired back at him.

“You’re full of shit, Parnasse,” Eponine snapped. “Nothing but shit. Now get out, before one of us shoots you.”

“You won’t shoot,” Montparnasse said, with the utmost confidence. “You won’t. I know you won’t, because I  have information that you want.”

“About?” Enjolras still didn’t look convinced.

“Patron-Minette. Where they are. What they’re planning next, and how exactly they intend to annihilate you.”

“What the _hell,_ Monty,” Eponine growled. “I’m no fan of Thenardier or what he’s doing, but why would you just stab your own team in the back like that? Do you not have any sense of loyalty?”

“Loyalty…” Montparnasse mused. “Such a fragile thing, at least in my case.”

Eponine made a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff. “You can say that again.”

Montparnasse shrugged, unashamed. “But I’m angry at Patron right now. They made me give up my leadership, my title, and reduced me to a mere hitman. My only job now is to finish you off, and then what?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Courfeyrac dryly. “Your life must be so hard.”

“So hard,” Montparnasse agreed, not catching the sarcasm. “And I’ve decided not to invest myself in a group where I cannot see the near future for myself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Combeferre.

“I mean that when someone comes along who is better than me, _even just the slightest bit,_ at killing or maiming or destroying or being persuasive, then Thenardier will kill me. And that will be it!” Montparnasse laughed, a hysterical sound, and then inhaled deeply, seeming to compose himself. “What I mean is, there is no loyalty among criminals. I will someday be replaced, and I don’t particularly feel like becoming Patron’s next victim.”

“So you came to us,” said Enjolras, sounding unimpressed. “Your worst enemies. To, what, plead for our compassion? Ask to join us? Beg forgiveness?”

“That doesn’t sound like the Montparnasse I know,” said Eponine. Her hand still didn’t leave Feuilly’s shoulder, although he had calmed down considerably, but Musichetta was sure that if her hands were free, she would be crossing them.

Gavroche made a noise of agreement, but Montparnasse wasn’t finished.

“No, you’re right, I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “I’m not here to plead or beg- I’d sooner shoot myself. But I figure you lot are more forgiving than Thenardier. And what I’ve told you, what I’m getting ready to tell you, Thenardier will not forgive.”

“Then don’t tell us,” said Musichetta, “because we don’t care. Turn around and go back to your boss. Tell him you killed us. Leave now, and you won’t get punished.”

“But I _will,_ ” Montparnasse said, and his voice _couldn’t have broken, could it?_ “I _will_ be punished, severely, because Thenardier _knows_ things. He’ll know I haven’t killed you all, and the consequences…” He shuddered. “Death would be more welcome.”

On the other side of Feuilly from Musichetta, Eponine shivered, a subtle movement, but it was enough to tell Musichetta that whatever Thenardier considered punishment was beyond simple cruelty.

“So what exactly are you asking of us?” asked Joly, who, like the rest of them, seemed to have forgotten that this was _Montparnasse_ , and they _didn’t care._

“I’m willing to give you information,” Montparnasse said. “Whatever you want to hear, as long as it’s within my knowledge, about Patron-Minette, about Thenardier, whatever. And in return, you keep me under the radar. Don’t let Thenardier get to me, because if he does I swear it will be hell on earth for all of us.”

“And just how,” said Combeferre skeptically, shifting his gun into his other hand and repointing it at Montparnasse, reminding him that he was still very much surrounded in this scenario. “Do you intend for us to keep you _under the radar_ when you’ve said yourself that Thenardier knows everything? He’ll notice that you failed when we continue our revolutionary work and make the headlines again.”

“Which is why you _don’t_ make the headlines,” Montparnasse said. “At least not yet. Let me state my case, stay low for a bit, and then, when Patron and its leader have calmed down, then you can do your revolution shit again.”

“We can’t just stop and hold everything while you hide from your problems,” Enjolras snapped. “And what will we do when Thenardier comes around to check on whether or not you’ve succeeded?”

“You kill me,” Montparnasse said calmly, ignoring the protests that sprung up. “You kill me, and then I won’t be punished for the information that you tortured out of me.”

“We aren’t-“

“At least, that’s what Patron-Minette will think,” said Montparnasse, interrupting Bossuet’s protests. “They’ll believe that you tortured information out of me and then killed me.”

“That’s a coward’s way out,” hissed Feuilly. He had more or less calmed down, the only signs of his panicking the tear streaks on his face.

“And I’m nothing if not a coward,” Montparnasse agreed. “But this will give them a new respect for you. Thenardier will see that you have guts, if nothing else. Enough to torture and then kill me. You will become feared.”

“And we aren’t already?” Enjolras demanded.

Musichetta knew the answer before Montparnasse spoke it.

“Not really _feared,_ I’m afraid,” he said. “More _annoying_. You like to screw with the government, but you haven’t really done any massacre-level shit yet.”

“Because massacre-level shit _isn't necessary,_ ” Combeferre said through gritted teeth. “We do what is necessary to continue to try to stop the oppression-”

“Save it,” Montparnasse snapped. “To be respected and feared? Killing unnecessarily is _so_ important. That’s just another difference between you guys and Patron.”

“And we prefer it like that,” said Courfeyrac. “We don’t want to be feared by the people. That’s who we’re fighting for.”

“Uh-huh,” Montparnasse was back to his old snappy self. “So do you agree to this or not, _Les Amis?_ ”

“Never,” growled Feuilly. “Never _ever-_ ”

“Feuilly.” Enjolras’ tone held a warning. “Now is not the time.”

“ _But he killed Bahorel!_ ” Feuilly said, and it was such an agonized howl that Musichetta and Eponine drew backwards, letting go of him. Although this would have been an opportune time for him to charge at Montparnasse, he didn’t. He simply stood there, shaking with anger and grief and pure rage.

“I realize that,” said Enjolras, “and that wasn’t okay. But we need information. We need this to work.”

Several people started shouting at once, yelling _how could you_ and _what_ and _never._ Feuilly had his own brand of complaints about the _not okay_ comment that he expressed by screaming at Enjolras, calling him awful things and beginning to cry again.

Enjolras remained stoic and calm through it all, taking the insults as they came, then, when it was quiet once more, he spoke, whispering this time.

“I just think,” he said. “That this is what’s best for us right now. We need information, and we always have the option of killing him once we have the details we need.”

“That makes you no better than the government you’re working so hard to overthrow,” Cosette said, and at the sound of her normally sweet voice laced with so much anger, several people turned to look at her.

She was gripping Marius’ hand, although it looked more for his support than hers. Her pretty face was in an expression of outrage, and her eyes flashed dangerously as she spoke.

“You say you’re not in this to scare the people?” she asked. “Well, you’re failing. If you take this man in just to then kill him and fabricate a story about all the hell he went though at your hands, that’s not becoming respected. That’s spreading lies just to spread fear. It’s no better than what the government has done in the past, and it’s no better than what they’re doing now, no matter how noble your intentions are.”

She paused to take a breath, and Marius squeezed her hand tightly.

“Damn, Lark,” Eponine muttered beside Musichetta, and Musichetta couldn’t help but agree. Cosette was an atomic bomb in the body of an angel.

Enjolras didn’t step down this time. “But if we don’t take him up on this, we have no information and no advantage to Patron-Minette, which we need to take over the government.”

“I’m not telling you to turn Montparnasse down,” she said. “In fact, I’m telling you to take him up on it.”

“ _No,_ Cosette,” Feuilly murmured, and Musichetta wondered how he must feel. Like his world had ended with the gunshot that had taken out his best friend, and now it was collapsing in on him all over again as his team _opted to join forces with his killer._ Bahorel’s _murderer._

And Feuilly’s world-destroyer.

She put a hand on his arm once more, but this time, it wasn’t to restrain him. It was a hand of reassurance, of comfort, and he didn’t try to shrug it off.

“Then what exactly…” Enjolras seemed confused at Cosette’s logic. “What exactly _are_ you telling me to do?”

“Simple.” Cosette smiled, like she was so proud of him for finally reaching her point. “We take Montparnasse in. We make sure that he knows that one movement, one _breath_ against us and he dies, and we let him tell his story. We gather information from said story, we use it to our advantage, and if Patron-Minette figures it out, then we raise hell and _fight them,_ because Les Amis do _not_ back down. We do _not_ kill Montparnasse, because Feuilly was right. That is the coward’s way out, and besides, we are not unnecessary killers. We do whatever it takes, within reason, to take these bastards that call themselves government officials _out,_ and we do it quickly. As quickly as possible, before anyone else dies at their hands. Understood?”

There was dead silence, even from Montparnasse, for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds. Musichetta was beginning to think that no one would ever speak when Enjolras sighed.

“That’s a- a good idea,” he said, like he hated to admit it. “All in favor?”

Around the room, hands went up, with Marius’ shooting up first. One by one, they all put up their hands except for R and Feuilly.

Enjolras looked at R, a long, intense look that made Musichetta wonder what was going on inside his head. Then R nodded, like Enjolras had expressed all that he needed to in a single look, and put his hand up.

Feuilly’s hand stayed down.

No one questioned it.

Enjolras turned to Montparnasse. “Majority votes on Cosette’s idea. You’re stuck with us, for now.”

Montparnasse nodded, an expression something like defense on his face. Was the former leader of Patron-Minette… unsure?

“Just remember,” put in Cosette, a little too cheerfully, “that if you so much as touch one of us, you will get shot.”

“Got it,” Montparnasse muttered. Then he hesitated, like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, and nothing came out. He closed his mouth again, then reopened it.

It sounded forced, like he was physically shoving it out of his body, but the words were clearly there.

“Thank you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was completed and edited while watching the first and second star wars movies and i wish i was sorry 
> 
> *eliza hamilton voice* iiiIIIIii'm not sorryyyyy
> 
> but yeah if the end seems rushed and/or terribly out of character and awful and it seems like the author was majorly distracted by her otp getting together onscreen...
> 
> 1) it is. im sorry.
> 
> 2) i was. im not sorry for this fact
> 
> so sometimes little brothers are a pain but sometimes they convince their godfather to go out and buy me coffee and yes this was good
> 
> it's probably bad that i've said my coffee order so many times that my little brother has it memorized
> 
> *shrugs, completely unapologetically*
> 
> sorry if this sucked point errors out to me and i will do my best to fix them
> 
> i have to go *shudders as dramatic music begins to play* s o c i a l i z e 
> 
> ew
> 
> -byrd


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which crap goes down and i really must apologize to the presidents of the feuilly fan club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo byrd is back ladies and germs
> 
> hope everyone that celebrates it had a marvelous Christmas... i got so much musical theatre fandomy nerd stuff bc my grandma U nD ErstANdS mE its great
> 
> but yeah its come to my notice (by the president of the feuilly fan club, no less) that im being an ass to these poor characters.
> 
> i wish i was sorry, jemma
> 
> *evil laughter*
> 
> SO FUNNY STORY between the twenty three of us in my family, we managed to blow three different fuses while all trying to plug in our crap at the same time
> 
> i cant imagine how this happened
> 
> *sarcasm intensifies*
> 
> but soooo our lights were like flickering on and off it was hilarious
> 
> at least, i thought it was hilarious
> 
> none of the adults were half as amused as i am
> 
> adults shmadults
> 
> i also got a robotic helicopter stuck in my hair and had to cut said hair
> 
> the helicopter is fine. have no fear. my hair, however...
> 
> ....on a completely unrelated note, HATS. hats are in, right.
> 
> IM RLY SORRY FOR THIS CHAPTER ITS LATE AND IM PROBABLY EXPERIENCING SOMETHING CLOSE TO DRUNKENNESS
> 
> DONT WORRY NOT ON ALCOHOL IM UNDERAGE 
> 
> BUT ON RED DYE 
> 
> WHICH IM NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE
> 
> YEE HAW
> 
> here goes nothing *sigh*
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Twenty Four_

R wished he knew what the hell was going on.

He’d pieced together that the guy that had died –Bahorel – was very close to Feuilly, and that Feuilly was still very much Not Okay over his death. He had gathered that Feuilly was typically a pretty calm person, but he certainly hadn't seen much of said calmness since he’d arrived.

He kept wondering why Feuilly was giving Jehan the cold shoulder when R had been there, too, watching as Bahorel  was shot. R was just as much to blame that neither of them had stepped in to save Bahorel. He wasn’t innocent either.

Maybe Jehan and Feuilly had a history.

After the deal had been made, the group settled on the couches. It would have looked quite like a cozy family picture save for the fact that some people were still holding their guns. The looks on everyone’s faces were borderline murderous, and when Montparnasse tried to sit down next to anyone, they just glared at him. As a result, Montparnasse was left awkwardly standing behind Eponine and Gavroche’s couch until Gavroche scooted over with a look on his face that clearly said he’d just as soon shoot the criminal than give him his seat.

Enjolras, who looked for all the world like he was holding court in the giant armchair, cleared his throat.

“Montparnasse. You promised us information.”

“Right.” Montparnasse leaned back on the couch. “What do you want to know?”

Combeferre spoke up. “Where is Patron-Minette now?”

“Somewhere out in the country,” Montparnasse said. “They think they’re on you three’s trail.”

He directed this last bit at Eponine, Feuilly, and Jehan. Jehan flinched away from his gaze, while Feuilly refused to meet his eye. Eponine looked at him straight on, unblinking and expression so full of rage that R was amazed Montparnasse didn’t drop to his knees and beg forgiveness right then and there.

Eponine, as R had learned quite quickly, was not a force to be reckoned with.

“Why do they think that they’re on our trail?” Jehan asked, eyes still pointed towards the ground.

“Because I told them that they were,” Montparnasse said simply. “I told them that I had seen you three continue running, on past the house, and that they should go after you while your tracks were still hot. I may have… volunteered the idea that I should be the one to remain behind to take care of the rest of you. Finish you off, you know. Patron-Minette still thinks that they’re after the three rats that spied on their meeting, and let’s pray we  never have to be face-to-face with a Thenardier that realizes he’s been tricked.”

“The meeting,” Eponine said. “What was it about?”

“Recruitment,” Montparnasse said, meeting her eyes again. “That explosion at the government base? It wasn’t Patron-Minette. But it _did_ benefit us greatly. All those prisoners that escaped were confused, angry, and without anywhere or anyone to turn to. Enter Thenardier, who rounds up the survivors, glosses up his public speaking, and offers them protection, food, and shelter in exchange for support.”

“Did they go for it?” Joly asked. “I mean, does Patron-Minette now have a hundred new followers, or…”

“Some of them did,” Montparnasse said with a small, mean smile. “The others agreed soon enough after we shot the first couple protesters.”

“You _killed_ people just for not joining you?” Musichetta demanded.

“Are you really surprised?” Enjolras snapped, and even R recoiled at the fury behind his voice. “A band of thieves and murderers is all you really are.”

“All _they_ really are,” Montparnasse corrected. “Remember, I’m not one of them anymore.”

“That’s a joke,” snorted Eponine, and Gavroche hid his snicker in her shirtsleeve.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh away,” Montparnasse growled. “But I really _am_ trying to help you.”

Feuilly made a choking sound. “You’ve been doing a great job. Truly.”

Montparnasse looked at Feuilly. “Is this about your friend? The one that I shot? Honestly, I would get over it. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re at _war_ here, both with each other and with the government. There are going to be casualties.”

Feuilly was up before anyone could react. He crossed the room in two quick strides and got right up in Montparnasse’s face. His gun was out, and all R could wonder was why on earth they had let a clearly emotionally unstable person have a weapon, when the very gun in question was pressed against Montparnasse’s forehead.

“Say something else about Bahorel, _I effing dare you,_ ” Feuilly said through gritted teeth, and gone was the fragile, crying boy. This was a warrior, filled with rage and hurt over the loss of his dearest friend, and he would stop at nothing to ensure that the honor of said friend was restored.

Even if it meant shooting their one source of real information, the greatest lead they’d had since the world ended.

Les Amis began to react all at once. Enjolras jumped to his feet, as did R, but while Enjolras could bark out a warning, all R could do was gesture helplessly to no one in particular. Musichetta and Eponine both made to stop his gun, but Eponine got there first.

“Feuilly!” She leapt up and put a hand on his arm, but his gun hand didn’t even waver. “Feuilly, stop. You can’t shoot him. We need him.”

“You effing son of a _bitch,_ ” Feuilly growled, pressing the gun harder into Montparnasse’s head. He made no move to remove it, and Eponine’s hand hovered near his shoulder, unsure of whether he actually planned on pulling the trigger or not.

Montparnasse, for the first time since R had met him, looked scared shitless.

After all, even brave men cowered in the face of their own death staring them in the face.

And Montparnasse had admitted himself that he was a coward.

***

Courfeyrac didn’t jump up with everyone else when Feuilly pulled out the gun.

Maybe because had seen it coming.

Call him over-observant, but Courfeyrac tended to notice things that others didn’t, which had helped him relate to his many boyfriends and girlfriends over the years. He noted subtle changes in mood and body language. He could tell when someone was upset, or angry, or glowing with happiness, even if they had the  best poker face in the world.

And it had helped him once the world had ended, too. He picked up on little details over the comms units that had helped them figure out  the location of a missing comrade. He could sense the programming behind the gov-bots, such as how, without fail, their arms vibrated before drawing their weapons, that enabled him more than once to save a friend’s (or his own) life.

And yet it hadn't been enough to help Jehan. It hadn't been enough to prevent Gavroche from being captured, or Eponine. It hadn't been enough to save Bahorel, both the first and the second time.

So, yes, he’d seen Feuilly’s fingers twitch towards the handle of his gun. He’d watch Feuilly pull the weapon out without the faintest trace of surprise in his mind. He didn’t jump, or yell, or even make a face, just remained seated beside Combeferre, expression neutral.

He’d seen the unwavering, unflinching gun arm extended towards Montparnasse’s head, and had known with certainty that if he wasn’t stopped, Feuilly would shoot him. Feuilly would shoot and most likely kill Montparnasse.

But Courfeyrac still made no move to stop Feuilly, no move to even call out.

He wondered if that made him a terrible person, that he wanted the man who had caused so much destruction, so much heartbreak, dead. That he personally wouldn’t mind if Montparnasse died. That he wouldn’t shed a tear if that bullet found its mark.

Then he shook his head and reached for Combeferre’s hand. He wasn’t a killer. He didn’t think malicious thoughts. He was happy, and bright, and he had to maintain that. No negative thoughts.

Combeferre’s hand tensed in his own, and Courfeyrac looked up to see that his eyes were glued on Feuilly. His entire body was still and stiff; Courfeyrac could feel it, and whether the tight squeeze he gave Combeferre’s hand was a warning or a comfort, he couldn’t decide.

The entire room seemed to be frozen, everyone holding their breath, anxious to see how this played out. Eponine’s hand was lifted towards Feuilly’s raised weapon, but she had removed her hand from his arm. Gavroche had scooted even further down the couch, which was subtle, but sent a clear message: _if you’re going to shoot him, he isn't falling on me._

Montparnasse licked his lips nervously. “You can’t shoot me. Your team needs the information I have.”

“What information is there left to give us?” Enjolras asked.

Montparnasse hesitated. “Now _that_ would be spoiling the fun, wouldn’t it?”

Feuilly made a hissing noise. “ _Answer him,_ you ass.”

And Montparnasse obeyed, perhaps because it was best not to argue with the one holding a loaded gun to your head.

“The information I have left,” he repeated. “Right.” He wet his lips again, swallowed hard. He made to lean back, but Feuilly’s gun stayed planted firmly on his forehead.

“I have knowledge regarding Patron-Minette and their plans to overthrow the government.”

“Jus’ like us,” murmured Gavroche.

“Except you all are working for the good of the people. We –they- aren’t. If they succeed, the country will be thrown into chaos. It will be a reign of terror, to go down in the history books as such, and it will be _glorious._ ”

“You’re sitting in a room full of revolutionaries for the people,” Musichetta said. “Think carefully about your next words.”

“Especially since one of them has a _gun to your head,”_ Courfeyrac put in, which maybe wasn’t wise, but it prompted another nervous swallow from Montparnasse, which made him feel a sliver of satisfaction.

“What?” Montparnasse sighed. “Nothing I’ve said is untrue, in my own biased opinion. It _will_ be glorious.”

“It _would,_ ” Combeferre corrected. “If it were a reality. Which it isn't. You won’t succeed.”

“ _They_ won’t succeed,” Montparnasse corrected.

R made a sound deep in his throat that sounded like a growl and hit the coffee table just as Enjolras said, “Make up your _goddamn_ mind, Montparnasse. Whose side are you on?”

“An interesting question,” Montparnasse mused, and he sounded for all the world as though he could be strolling back and forth, stroking his chin thoughtfully, like he wasn’t pressed to a couch by a gun to his head. “Are there really sides in all this? Good, bad, criminals, revolutionaries, gov-bots, evil, moral? Where do we draw the line?”

“Simple.” Feuilly now sounded as though he was forcing the words out. “We do what’s _right,_ and best for the population as a whole. You and Patron-Minette do things only for your own benefit, for entertainment or money or power or _respect_. There’s a big difference.”

“Yes, but where does the overlap lie?” Montparnasse asked, finally daring to lean forward, pressing Feuilly back by his gun arm as he did so. Feuilly regained his senses and pressed back, so that they were at a stalemate, a battle of strength and wills in the middle of the living room.

How poetic, Courfeyrac thought, even as he wished with all his heart that Feuilly would either pull the trigger or put the gun down, because he was honestly starting to freak him out.

“After all, wasn’t it only for the good of the _people_ that your precious friend died? What was his name?”

“You’re not even worthy to _think_ his name, let alone _speak it_ and _defile it_ with your foul mouth,” Feuilly spat, but at the mention of Bahorel, his hand wavered.

Courfeyrac saw it, and cried out a warning much too late.

Because Montparnasse had seen the slight shake, too, and in one swift movement, he knocked the gun out of Feuilly’s hands and to the ground. He pulled a tiny black handgun from the inner waistband of his pants and, faster than anyone could move, grabbed Gavroche by the bad arm, causing the boy to shriek in pain and collapse at his feet.

He kept ahold of Gavroche’s injured arm with one hand and with the other, pointed the gun right at Gavroche’s temple.

“Don’t anyone move,” he snarled, and the remaining Amis who had jumped to their feet reluctantly sat back down. “Don’t anyone _effing move,_ because I’m faster than the lot of you and you know it. The first person to attempt to shoot me gets to be held accountable for my bullet finding this twerp’s brain.”

Dead silence in the living room, save for Gavroche’s slight whimpering as Montparnasse clenched a hand around his hurt arm.

“I won’t shoot the kid if you all just shut up and listen to me,” Montparnasse said with a sneer. “And since we’re having such trouble with our negotiating skills, I’m here to educate you. How to get answers like a criminal, step one,” and here he smiled, a nasty, cruel grin that darkened his face considerably. “You do whatever it takes to make your enemies agree.”

He shifted his hand, and Gavroche, probably involuntarily, cried out in pain.

“Are you all listening to me?” he hissed. “Because everything I said just now was true. The negotiations, the agreement, the everything. All true. I want to work with you. I want to –God forbid- _help_ you. But since you all are having trouble taking charge, I’m here to assist you. Make the choice a little easier.”

He leveled the gun at Gavroche’s temple and looked at the room at large, at Les Amis’ faces looking back at him with mixtures of shock and rage and worry.

“You agree to my terms, _all of my terms,_ and no one gets hurt. Otherwise…”

He smiled nastily. “You all die, starting with squirt here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry Christmas, ya filthy animal
> 
> this was you all's present this year... a heart-wrenching fic brought to you by the ever lovely and flightless byrd :))))))
> 
> kevin once said that they were just going to read through all my authors notes without reading the fic bc they said they'd get a pretty good idea of what was going on regardless
> 
> ...as well as a summary of my life
> 
> less than three, kevin
> 
> and lydia
> 
> and jemma
> 
> (hey i have a tumblr. @to-the-giant-furniture-wall )
> 
> also: newsies fans, all my other fics on ao3 are newsies fics hinthintwinkwink you should go check em out HINTHINTWINKWINK
> 
> sigh
> 
> solid choice on the casserole, linda
> 
> and a partridge in a pear tree, helen
> 
> -byrd


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which crap goes down and the author really needs to make her lack of creativity in summarizing her chapters be a part of her new years resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year, people
> 
> may 2016 be a heck of a lot better than 2015 *raises glass of cherry lemonade bc i am an actual child at heart* cheers
> 
> here have an awkward filler chapter that gets some crap out of the way
> 
> sorry if it sucks... the usual... i don't like this ... bla bla bla
> 
> i'm gonnna be more positive this year so THIS CHAPTER IS IMPORTANT, REGARDLESS OF WHETHER OR NOT I LIKE IT
> 
> i think i just physically hurt myself trying to be positive, guys
> 
> this is gonna be a great year *raises glass of cherry lemonade again* cheers
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Whatever Chapter This Is_

Eponine couldn’t breathe.

Her brother was her last remaining relative that she actually liked some of the time. He could be a sarcastic little piece of shit sometimes, and he was rude and had close to no manners, but he was _her_ brother. So she looked out for him. Made sure he took (somewhat) decent care of himself. Prevented him from going into situations where he could be potentially killed.

And although she’d failed with most of that, she was at least keeping an eye on him.

But now their enemy (her _ex_ ) had a gun to Gavroche’s head, and Eponine was finding oxygen to be a luxury all of a sudden.

All that shit about keeping Gav safe and patching up his arm and not sending  him on any more dangerous missions wouldn’t be worth a damn if Montparnasse put a bullet through the kid’s head.

“Montparnasse,” she said, and while she didn’t move, as per his instructions, her voice carried so much malice and hatred that she could imagine she was hurting him physically, which is what she really wanted to do. She wanted to go over to him and bash his pretty face in, but that would probably get her little brother killed.

So she obediently sat back down, even though every cell in her body screamed not to, and tried to compensate for her rage by sending Montparnasse the nastiest look she could.

“Montparnasse,” said Enjolras. “Put the gun down.”

His voice was carefully controlled, as though he was barely avoiding screaming, which Eponine could definitely relate to.

Montparnasse just laughed. “Order me around all you want. I’ve got the gun- and the kid. None of you are going anywhere for a while.”

“So state your _terms,_ you ass,” Courfeyrac hissed.

“Careful,” Montparnasse chided, repositioning the gun so that it was digging into the side of Gavroche’s head. “Watch your tongue, or you’ll get your little friend here shot.”

Courfeyrac snapped his mouth shut so fast it was almost comical. Eponine might have snorted had the joke not been about her brother.

“You want to know my terms?” Montparnasse snapped, addressing the room at large. “First. You treat me like a _human,_ not like a bloody prisoner. Not like a criminal.”

“Which you are,” grumbled Bossuet.

“Zip it,” growled Montparnasse. “Second, you don’t sell me out to Patron-Minette, no matter how annoying I’m being. Third, you _don’t_ threaten to shoot me. No matter what I say.”

“Objection,” said Enjolras.

“This isn't bloody _court,_ the entire justice system was demolished ages ago,” said Montparnasse. He readjusted Gavroche’s position and the boy squeezed his eyes shut as tears sprang into his eyes.

Eponine was going to _murder_ Montparnasse. Even if what he’d done before was excusable (and it _wasn’t,_ she had _no idea_ why they were pardoning him), _nobody_ hurt her baby brother and got away with it.

Not even fashionably dressed crime lords who she may have once loved.

So instead of lunging at the ass and clawing his eyes out, she kept herself relatively calm by imagining just what she was going to do to him once her brother was safe once more. Maybe she’d start by messing up his pretty face.

“Objection,” Enjolras said again. “If you threaten to hurt us,” and here he looked at Gavroche, who had silent tears making their way down his face, “then I personally will not hesitate to brain you.”

“Seconded,” said Eponine at once.

“My God, this is bloody court,” Montparnasse sighed.

“Shut up, you,” said Feuilly. He turned to his friends. “Can I shoot him when he lets Gavroche go?”

“Please do,” said Eponine, who had been fantasizing about doing it herself.

Montparnasse tutted disapprovingly. “But you forget who has the power here.” As if to demonstrate, he shook Gavroche, keeping the gun planted firmly against the side of his head.

“I’ll kill you,” Eponine spat. “I’ll _effing_ kill you, you stupid son of a-”

“Ah ah ah,” he said easily, cutting off her insult. “You’re assuming I’m going to let him go.”

“You said you would!” cried Musichetta.

“ _If_ you agreed to my terms,” said Montparnasse. “Which you haven’t done yet.”

“Because they aren’t _reasonable!_ ” said Cosette, speaking for the first time. “You’re asking us to do unlawful things! So we’re taking you in and helping you lay low for a while. Fine. But putting up with you risking our lives, not turning you in when you threaten us, _not being able to defend ourselves?_ ”

“She’s right,” Marius jumped in quickly.

“She is,” agreed Combeferre. “We won’t agree to anything that puts this group at risk.”

“You _will,_ ” said Montparnasse. “You will, or I swear to God I will kill him.”

“If y’ shoot me,” said Gavroche weakly, twisting to look Montparnasse in the eyes, “then they’s gonna kill you. Y’ put a bullet through m’ head, an’ you’ll fin’ at _leas’_ four in your own.”

“Ah, but you see, you’ll be gone, _mon petit,_ ” Montparnasse said in a patronizing voice, and Eponine could see how tightly Gavroche grit his teeth. If there was anything Gavroche hated more than death threats, it was being talked down to by the person threatening to kill him. “So your pretty little team will be minus one, and _you_ won’t be able to watch me die.”

“Like hell I won’,” Gavroche growled, and without warning, slammed his head back into Montparnasse’s hand. As his palm was caught in between the hard metal of the gun and his own leg, Montparnasse dropped the gun in surprise, and it landed with a clatter on the ground.

Now that the threat was disarmed, everyone moved at once. Eponine stood and pulled out her small handgun, cocking it and pointing it at Montparnasse as quick as she possibly could. Gavroche kicked the gun under the couch when Montparnasse tried to reach for it, and then crawled away towards the other couch, towards safety, cradling his damaged arm that Montparnasse had probably screwed up even more by grabbing it.

Everyone else was on their feet and had a weapon out in an instant. Cosette didn’t have a gun, but her dainty little fists were clenched tight and the look on her face made even Eponine nervous.

 _A supernova in the body of a songbird,_ she decided,  _was t_ _he best way to describe Cosette._

Montparnasse froze. He may have been dangerous as hell and unafraid of destroying others in his mission to stay alive, but he valued his own life greatly. Which meant he didn’t take stupid risks that would jeopardize himself.

“You gonna shoot me?” he asked, and Eponine would have been lying if she tried to deny that his poker face was absolutely _amazing._ There wasn’t a trace of fear in his face this time, only acceptance.

Resignation. He was resigned to his fate.

Which meant that Eponine wouldn’t be the one to deliver it. She was not merciful to people that had hurt her loved ones, and death would surely be a mercy to Montparnasse now.

So she wouldn’t kill him.

“Yes,” she said, and, angling her gun down, pulled the trigger.

Montparnasse howled.

***

“So how’s our patient?” Eponine asked, gesturing towards the bedroom where Montparnasse was contained.

“He’s resting. Shut up,” snapped Joly, who was not at all happy that he had had to be in such close quarters with the criminal as he had been required to dig the bullet out of Montparnasse’s ankle. “Couldn’t you have shot him somewhere else?” Bullets in joints were bloody _hard_ to pull out. “Or, you know, you could have not shot him at all?”

“He needed to suffer,” Eponine said cheerfully.

Joly shuddered. “Remind me _never_ to touch Gavroche.”

“I won’t remind you,” she said with a grin. “I’ll just shoot you. In the foot.”

He laughed, and her eyes lit up momentarily. Maybe it was slightly dark that they were joking about shooting each other, but  hey. He would take whatever joy he could bring right now.

“Just make sure it’s my left one,” he said, knocking on the prosthetic. Eponine snickered.

“Wouldn’t that damage the material?”

“Definitely,” he said. “Sadly, it’s not bulletproof. But I’d rather you shoot me there than anywhere with actual skin.”

“Point taken. If _you_ of all people dare to touch my brother, I’ll shoot your prosthetic.”

Feuilly, who was passing through the hallway, stopped dead, having only heard the last sentence.

“ _What?”_

Eponine and Joly looked at each other before busting out laughing. Feuilly’s baffled expression only served to make them laugh harder.

***

“Joly,” Combeferre said quietly. “I’m going to need to go get Joly. Stay here.”

Gavroche winced. Combeferre, who was a decent doctor in training himself, wouldn’t need Joly’s assistance if Gavroche’s arm hadn't been bad. Which meant that Montparnasse had screwed something up that needed serious fixing.

_Dammit._

“’M not goin’ an’where,” Gavroche mumbled, trying to keep his eyes open. He knew that falling asleep now would be very bad –both Combeferre and Bossuet had warned against it; if he closed his eyes now, they might never open again—but he was just _so tired._ And in _so much pain._

_Think of something riveting. Think of something that will keep you awake._

“Gavroche!”

“Ponine,” he murmured. That was motivation enough to stay awake, because _goddammit_ he was not dying with his sister in the room.

“Oh, my God, what did that _son of a bitch_ do to you?” she said, and Gavroche wanted to cry at the break in her voice, because Eponine Jondrette _didn’t cry._ She just didn’t.

“Let me see.” That was Joly. Level-headed, calm-in-medical-crises-Joly. He would fix it.

Eponine scooted back, and Joly knelt by the bed Gavroche was lying on. As soon as Montparnasse had been taken into the other bedroom to have the bullet in his foot removed and the coast was clear of crime lords, Courfeyrac had carried Gavroche up here to rest and be examined by Combeferre.

Only it was apparently so bad that he’d had to fetch Joly.

“Gav…” That was Joly again. Gavroche wasn’t looking at anyone. He was focused on the ceiling, hoping that in the blank white plaster he could find something interesting enough to look at that he wouldn’t drift off, but his arm hurt _so badly,_ and his eyelids were _so heavy,_ that he had to physically force himself to stay awake.

Just until Joly was finished looking at his arm. Then he could rest.

A gentle hand was probing at his arm, sending red hot spikes of pain all the way through Gavroche’s shoulder. He whimpered slightly, which caused the hand to freeze, then continue poking at him.

“Gavroche, this isn't good,” Joly said, and Eponine drew in a sharp breath.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

Joly didn’t respond. Gavroche could imagine the medical student’s face in his mind; biting his lip, brow creased in worry as he looked at the injury.

“When Montparnasse… you know, grabbed your arm, the stitches tore,” he finally said, “which allowed for the wound to open and infection to set in. It’s… it’s really bad, guys.”

“How _bad_ is it, Joly?” Eponine demanded again.

Somehow Gavroche knew the answer before Joly even opened his mouth.

“Really bad, Ep,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Gavroche could feel his eyes closing, and this time, there was nothing to stop them, no motivation, no riveting ceiling to look at. He just let it happen, figuring that if Joly could revive him, he would.

And if not…

“Ponine.” The word was a harsh, dry whisper, but he managed it anyways. “Love you… Ponine.”

And just before he drifted off for good, he could hear his sister’s panicked voice asking what the hell they could do to save him.

He just barely caught Joly’s response, but he did, and it was a terrible sentence to lose consciousness on.

“I’m going to have to amputate his arm, Ep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey pretend like that doctory exchange and explanation was better than it was because THIS IS A PSA BYRD IS NOT A MED STUDENT
> 
> now that that's out of the way
> 
> sorry gav
> 
> not really sorry parnasse
> 
> just... brace yourselves, readers. these next few chapters are going to be a bit
> 
> ...ugh
> 
> happy new year! :))
> 
> comments are always appreciated... even if you use them to yell at me. 
> 
> i will yell back.
> 
> don't let the cows get you, kiddies.
> 
> -byrd


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which an important talk is had, forgiveness is key, and someone loses a limb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure this is crap but hey *shrugs* i can't find it in me to care
> 
> if you see any errors/plot holes, point the suckers out. i'll fix them
> 
> hope everyone's doing lovely
> 
> here goes this crap
> 
> -byrd

_I Have Literally Given Up- AO3 Numbers My Chapters Differently So Whatever Man_

Cosette had been a witness to several horrific surgeries.

Even before the end of the civilized government, her papa would bring home wounded friends- usually an ally of some sort, injured while out working for the impending revolution, and he would proceed to patch them up while little Cosette had sat by, ready with the bandages and fresh water and needles and thread.

It had been a while since the last person he’d brought in. Nowadays, he stayed out on his missions for longer periods of time and returned home alone, to stay only for a day or two before kissing her cheek and setting off again.

“ _Go save the world, Papa,”_ she would always call after him.

“ _I’m working on it, Cosette,”_ he would always reply.

But he had brought in quite a few injured people in her lifetime, maybe even longer. So she was no stranger to surgical operations.

Gavroche’s amputation was, by far, the worst and most painful thing she had ever experienced.

And she wasn’t even in the room. His cries reached out to downstairs, where she sat in silence on the couch with the rest of the Amis, save for Joly, Combeferre, Eponine, and Feuilly. The former three were with Gavroche in surgery, Combeferre and Joly because of their medical skills and Eponine because it was her brother, and the latter was guarding Montparnasse’s door to make sure the recuperating criminal didn’t try anything funny, like sneak up on them with a gun again.

(They’d searched him and found another knife, which they had confiscated, so as of right now he was unarmed. But the guard had seemed like the safest option.)

After another shriek that echoed throughout the entire household and shattered whatever peace might have been forming, Marius stood from his seat behind her.

“I can’t do this,” he said abruptly. “I mean, I n-need some air. Fresh air.”

He made his way outside to the front porch, shutting the door behind him, and Cosette couldn’t hide her smile. Maybe she needed some air, too. At any rate, it would help clear her mind of the ten-year-old-boy going through hell a floor above them.

She stepped out onto the porch, taking in the fading sunlight, and found Marius sitting on the front steps.

“Knock, knock,” she said softly. He whirled around. “You want company?”

He smiled and _oh_ she suddenly understood the attraction to dimples that she had read so much about in her romance novels.

Well, dimples and freckles.

Because Marius really had the whole adorable lost puppy thing going for him, which made Cosette happy. And although she tried to be optimistic, these days, few things _really_ made her happy.

“Sure,” he said, brushing off the spot beside him. “Join me.”

She smoothed out her skirt and took a seat next to him, and for a moment, they sat in silence and watched the sunset.

Then Marius took a deep breath and turned to her. “You must think I’m being rude,” he said, stuttering slightly on _you._ “I-I just really don’t like doctory things, like stitches. And surgeries. Those kinds of things. I’m not meaning to be rude.”

Cosette giggled. “I wasn’t under the pretense that you were trying to be, silly. Everyone’s got something they don’t like.”

“Do you _like_ hearing things like that?” he asked incredulously. “Gavroche in there crying  like that?”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But I can bear it.”

“How?”

So she told him about the people her father brought in to stitch up, their names, their stories, little details about them that she might never forget.

Because Cosette hadn't forgotten a single one of those patients.

Whether they’d made it or not.

She could recall details like their favorite colors or how they’d gotten injured or if they had any family. She was wonderful at calming the patients down as her father worked on them, and perhaps she was using the same technique on Marius, telling him stories to calm him down.

She didn’t focus on the injuries, necessarily, because she wasn’t trying to make him even more anxious, so instead she focused on the people. Not the reason they came home with her papa.

At any rate, it worked. By the time she had gotten through several patient’s stories, his quick breathing had been reduced to normal and his eyes weren’t quite so wide. It probably helped that out here, they couldn’t hear the boy crying inside, couldn’t hear the sounds of his pain as  two med students took his arm.

Marius stared at her in awe throughout the final story, about a young woman scarcely older than she was now, who had been injured in an explosion and had lost three of her fingers on her left hand. Her name was Libby, and her eyes had been the color of chocolate. She had a little sister who she had lost in the same explosion, but she talked of her as though she were still alive. _Charlene,_ her sister had been called. Charlene apparently had a face like a baby doll and a sweet personality to match.

When she finished, Cosette wasn’t surprised to find that her eyes were misty, and Marius looked to be in much the same state.

“Was…” he wet his lips nervously. “Was your papa able to save her?”

She nodded. “Hers was a tale that ended happily, at least as far as I know. Papa patched up her hand and she was able to continue on her mission of busting gangs in the inner city. She could function just fine with seven fingers. We waved goodbye when she had recovered, and that’s the last I ever saw of her.”

He nodded, taking it in, and looked once more at the sun, now completely gone behind the line of horizon.

Cosette could almost imagine that it was a normal night, sitting on the porch steps and watching the sunset with a cute boy. Perhaps, a little over a year ago, she might have met Marius at uni. They would have hit it off instantly and he would have come to her house to pick her up for a date in the city and meet her papa.

But it wasn’t a normal night. The boy beside her, adorable as he was, happened to be a revolutionary, plotting with his friends to overthrow the government (or what remained of it), in a series of dangerous missions that had already permanently, irreversibly damaged the group of friends. Such plotting had already led to the death of one member, the imprisonment and then escape of a few others, and a boy, not yet old enough to be in middle school, screaming his lungs out in her papa’s  house because his arm was being removed from his body.

Not to mention that the city Cosette and Marius might possibly have gone into together for a night out was smoldering in a ruined shadow of what it had used to be. There would be no dates in that godforsaken place. There probably weren’t even any buildings left still standing.

Marius took a deep breath, then turned to Cosette, and she looked at him, interested.

“Cosette,’’ he said, wringing his hands nervously. “You’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Marius,” she said, smiling sweetly at him.

He reached out a shaking hand like he wanted to hold hers, then drew it back quickly.

_Oh._

Well, she could help him a bit.

She put her hands over top of his in his lap, and turned his hands so that she could set hers inside. There. Now they were holding hands properly.

“Cosette!” he said. “I mean. Cosette.”

“Yes, Marius,” she said patiently, internally squealing because she would be _damned_ if she didn’t think that he was the most awkwardly adorable boy she had ever met in her life and _oh,_ she was falling for him, hard.

“I-I really like you, Cosette?” he said, his voice cracking on her name and making it sound like a question.

“Oh, good.” She laughed at his confused expression. “Because I like you, too.”

His shoulders seemed to relax. “O-okay. So would you like to-”

“Yes, Marius.”

“And would it be alright if I kissed you?”

“Yes, you silly boy,” she said, smiling wide at his nervousness.

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently, chastely, then drew back quickly. “Was that- I mean, I’m sorry, I-”

“You missed,” she said softly, cutting him off, and, moving her hands from his own hands to his face to cradle it gently, she kissed him for real.

***

Feuilly wasn’t sure why Les Amis had put him in charge of guarding Montparnasse’s door.

The criminal obviously wasn’t going anywhere, since it was his foot that Eponine had shot, and Feuilly personally would not have chosen himself for the role of guard, seeing as he was the most likely to shoot Montparnasse should he show his face again.

And Feuilly would be shooting to kill, regardless of whatever bullshit his friends may have spouted about negotiating with the ex-leader of Patron-Minette.

Because he didn’t negotiate with people like Montparnasse. People who killed just for the hell of it.

People who were responsible for the death of his best friend.

So no, he wasn’t positive why he was currently posted outside Montparnasse’s door, seated against the wall, knocking his feet together and counting the stiches in the hall rug.

And he _really_ wasn’t sure why Jehan had just appeared at the top of the stairs and seemed to be making his way over to him.

“What do you want?” he snapped, because in better times, he might at least attempt to be civil, but he was bored, and exhausted, and really didn’t feel like dealing with anyone else right now.

Jehan’s eyes narrowed. “I came to relieve you, ass. Your shift’s over. Go to bed.”

“Like hell.” Call Feuilly overcautious, but he wasn’t about to let anyone take over for him. “You go to bed.”

“Can’t. Enjolras ordered me up here to take your post.”

“I’m sure he’d let you sleep if you told him that I’m _not moving_ ,” Feuilly said.

“Sorry,” Jehan said, plopping down beside him, back against the wall. “I’ve been ordered here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well that sucks, doesn’t it, because once again, _I am not moving._ ”

“Never told you that you had to,” Jehan said mildly. “Merely suggested that you go to bed.”

“Shut up, you,” snapped Feuilly.

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Jehan said, “Why do you hate me so much?”

There was no point in denying it. Jehan wasn’t an idiot, and Feuilly wasn’t about to try to tell him that he didn’t.

“You were there,” he said. “You watched him die and you didn’t do _anything_.”

Jehan didn’t ask who they were talking about, “You know that if I could have done anything, I would have.”

“You _could have,_ though, that’s the thing. You were _right there._ Surely you could have done _something.”_

“I couldn’t have!” Jehan cried, much too loudly, and tried to tone down his voice. “If I would have drawn attention to myself and R, then we wouldn’t have been able to sneak around Montparnasse and knock him out. He would have seen us, and after shooting Gavroche he would have just moved on to shooting us. We wouldn’t have been able to save Gavroche, Feuilly, dammit!”

“Got it,” snapped Feuilly. Of course he was glad that Gavroche was alive. He loved the kid, however briefly he’d known him.

“But couldn’t you have tried to save him too?” he whispered, his voice gone. He wasn’t even trying to be tough and uncaring anymore. He just wanted his best friend back.

***

Jehan’s heart was breaking; he could feel it.

Because a stupid, reckless decision _not_ to step in and help Bahorel  and Gavroche had ended in _this._

A fragile, damaged boy missing his best friend who was trying  to hide it by being a snarky jerk. And it was only barely working, because the tough outer shell he was trying to build up had cracks.

Lots and lots of cracks, Jehan couldn’t help thinking, as he watched a silent tear make its way down Feuilly’s face.

_But couldn’t you have tried to save him too?_

“Feuilly…” he said. “I’m-”

“Save it,” whispered Feuilly, his voice lacking the malice it usually held when he was addressing Feuilly. “Just bloody save it, J.”

_J._

No one had called him that since…

Well, since Fey.

And Fey wasn’t Fey anymore. Now he was whatever pet name Combeferre had come up with for him, because Courfeyrac wasn’t Jehan’s anymore.

He supposed they had “broken up” when Jehan was captured and assumed dead, giving Courfeyrac the opportunity (and the _right,_ now that his boyfriend was out of the picture) to fall in love with someone else.

Which was fine.

Jehan was shocked to find that, ever since his blowup at Courfeyrac, he hadn't been pining for him. Not once had he caught himself longing for his old relationship again, or feeling jealous of Combeferre.

He’d only felt anger, which he supposed was appropriate. All of Les Amis had been angry lately, for varying reasons, among them being that the world was ending.

But nothing even resembling love. Towards Fey, or anyone else.

Maybe there was something wrong with him.

“I was going to say I’m _sorry,_ Feu,” he said.

“It’s Feuilly,” he snapped, and then the momentary fire died from his eyes. “And… Jehan?”

“Yeah?” Jehan asked, looking at him.

“I… forgive you.”

***

Eponine stayed by her brother’s side throughout the entire thing, no matter how much she wanted to run away and hide.

She _hated_ seeing him in pain. She _hated_ the sound of him crying.

Because here was a boy who had more or less raised himself. He was afraid of next to nothing, and Eponine had personally watched him splint his own leg once. He didn’t cry, or express pain, or even fear.

This, amputating his arm, seemed to be rubbing his weakness in his face, as he struggled against Eponine’s hold on his good arm and screamed. And cried.

With each sound that emitted, apparently involuntarily, from his mouth, Eponine could feel a bigger and bigger piece of her heart shatter, until she was fighting back just as many tears as he was. When he finally passed out, Eponine thought, _side effects be damned._ At least he wasn’t feeling anything anymore.

Who knows how long it went on. To Eponine, it felt like a lifetime and a half later when Joly finally sat back, wiped his forehead, and hoarsely announced that it was done.

Combeferre collapsed into a chair, and Joly took a deep breath, then repeated himself. “Ep, we’re done. It’s finished.”

She didn’t let go of her brother. If she let him go now, he could slip away. He could leave her forever, and she wasn’t about to let that happen. Not ever. He’d already almost left her enough times.

“And?” she asked.

“Eponine…” Combeferre said, coming around the bed and placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Will he be okay?” She refused to look at the empty space on the bloody sheet where Gavroche’s arm once was, because that would be accepting that he was now at a disadvantage to everyone around him. She refused. Gavroche was a Thenardier. They were fighters. He could work around it.

He _had_ to work around it.

“He’s a survivor, Ep,” said Joly, wringing his hands and taking off his gloves.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“He should be alright,” said Combeferre. “He should be just fine.”

“ _Should._ Isn't your job to encourage me that he’ll be great? Wonderful? Just dandy?”

“Our _job,_ ” said Combeferre, “is to fix our patient.”

“Which we did,” put in Joly.

“Which we did,” agreed Combeferre, then, gentler, “we’ve done all we can, Ponine. Now we have to wait.”

“Eponine,” she corrected. “But he _should_ be okay, right?”

Joly and Combeferre exchanged a look that Eponine didn’t have to be a genius to figure out.

“We hope so,” whispered Joly, glancing towards the ground. “We’ve done all we can.”

Eponine fought down the wave of nausea that swelled up in her chest and glanced down at her brother’s sleeping face, hoping to whoever in the sky was listening that she would get to see his blue eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was the kiss crap? i feel like the kiss might have been crap
> 
> this chapter was also hecka short s o r r y 
> 
> also the coversation between jehan and feu was awkward, i know. im sorry
> 
> i'll fix these things later im frickin tired now
> 
> love y'all
> 
> -byrd


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one made me sad guys i'm sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooo
> 
> sorry for making you wait so long... love you all
> 
> not much to report, y'all
> 
> i have a pretty uneventful life
> 
> but i recently became obsessed with check please and i think i like this kind of pain so if anyone wants to yell with me about that
> 
> here goes nothing, you guys
> 
> i'm sorry in advance
> 
> -byrd

_Chapter Whatever_

Eponine woke up by her brother’s bedside to early morning light streaming through the curtains. She had no memory of falling asleep in the first place, but she wasn’t surprised. Combeferre and Joly had tried to convince her to sleep in the room she shared with Musichetta, but she had adamantly refused; Montparnasse was occupying it, and while she was sure she had the power to kick him out, she wasn’t ready to. Not tonight. Let him have one night of peace; she had shot him, after all.

So she chose to stick by Gavroche’s side, still clinging to his hand with a grip like death.

_He’s not leaving me. Not again._

Her dreams were full of dark shapes, rising from the shadows and pulling at Gavroche, trying to tug him from her grasp, but she held on with all her might, repeating his name over and over like a mantra.

She woke up with a start, Gavroche’s name on her lips, and there was a moment, a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, that she couldn’t see his chest rise and fall with breath.

With the hand not clutching his own, she frantically felt around his wrist for a pulse, and made an audible sound of relief when she felt the weak heartbeat under her fingers.

“You can’t go,” she told his sleeping form, as though saying it aloud made it a more plausible request. “I’ve already lost you once, and I’m not losing you again.”

“Eponine? You okay?”

Eponine jumped a mile, because Courfeyrac hadn't been there, standing in the doorway, two seconds ago.

When she turned towards him, he backed awkwardly into the hallway. “I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” was what Eponine had intended to say, but it came out as something that might come out of the throat of a dying frog. The sentiment seemed to be received, however, as Courfeyrac nodded and stepped into the room once more.

“How…” He seemed hesitant to finish the question. “How is he?”

“You want the honest answer, or the optimistic one?” Eponine asked, looking down at her brother, avoiding the blank stretch of sheet where his arm, his _functioning, working arm,_ had lain just last night.

She half-wondered what they’d done with the arm.

When the little food she had in her system threatened to make an alarming reappearance, she decided she didn’t want to know.

“Give me the realistic answer,” Courfeyrac said, pulling a chair that had been in the corner of the room around so that it was beside Eponine’s.

She sighed. “I was hoping you would ask me for the happier version.” The truth was, she didn’t want to even _think_ about the reality that Gavroche was in a bad state right now. She didn’t want to think that there was a chance that he wouldn’t get better.

He was a Thenardier. But more than that, he was a survivor.

He was going to get through this. He _had_ to.

He was all she had left.

“He should be fine.” Neither of them questioned the blatant and obvious lie.

There was a long silence, and then Courfeyrac sighed.

“Eponine…” He trailed off, looking at his hands. “I have a question.”

Eponine turned to look at him, at his nervous posture. She noted the way his voice shook ever so slightly, and the way that he glanced at Gavroche as if to ensure that the kid  was asleep.

He was being vulnerable and baring his emotions for her. This seemed to be a common theme.

And suddenly she was flashing back to her “therapy session” with Feuilly, how he’d done the same thing. He’d told her _everything,_ and she had tried to help him, to make him smile even if just for a little bit, but ultimately, had she done any good? He was still sad. He didn’t smile anymore. Lord only knew what the hell was going on between him and Jehan.

And here Courfeyrac, _literally the life and soul of Les Amis,_ was asking _her_ for advice.

“I’ll do my best,” she said honestly, trying for a smile and not a weary grimace.

“I may have…” Courfeyrac checked once more to be sure that Gavroche was truly asleep. _Interesting._ Eponine’s curiosity grew. _What was he going to ask her?_

“I may have… slept with Ferre last night.”

She choked. “ _What?”_

She was aware that they had been pining for ages. She knew that they had probably had a very intense makeout session on the porch, but…

“Isn't it a little… sudden?” she asked. “I mean, didn’t you _just_ get together?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, _no,_ not like _that!_ ”

Eponine’s shoulders relaxed, and she had to smile at the absolutely horrified expression on his face. “Well then what did you mean?”

“We shared a bed. That’s it.” Courfeyrac played with the hem of his shirt. “And I don’t know what’s going on anymore, _shit_ I’m so confused.”

“About?”

Courfeyrac gestured vaguely. “This! All of this! What the hell are we doing, Ep?”

“We’re saving the world.” Her tone was so dry that it shocked even her. “I don’t know, Courfeyrac. Do any of us know?”

A strangled noise like a sob came out of his throat, and he unsuccessfully tried to turn it into a laugh. “ _Eponine._ ”

“I know.” She scooted forward, still keeping a firm grasp on her brother’s hand, and gave him a one-armed hug. “I know, Courf, I know.”

“I want to go home,” he whispered, and Eponine could feel something inside her break. “I want to go back to my dorm room with Pontmercy, and we can laugh and joke and stay up late and go to Les Amis meetings.”

“To be fair, your life is one big meeting now,” Eponine said, trying to keep the mood light.

“And if it were under normal circumstances, this would be the dream life,” Courfeyrac agreed. “But it’s _not,_ oh my freaking _God_ Ponine it’s _not._ We’re on the run from an entire _government_ that wants us silenced, our country is in ruins, _literally in smoking ruins in most parts,_ our friend is dead, our allies are all gone or captured or God knows what else _Ponine what the hell are we doing?_ ”

Eponine stayed silent, sensing that he didn’t want a literal answer, that he needed to vent.

Didn’t they all.

She also didn’t want to say anything horribly cliché and stupid like, _it’ll be okay._ Courfeyrac wasn’t an idiot. They might survive this whole mess. They might all survive this whole mess. But nothing would ever be perfectly okay again.

He leaned his head back against her arm, which was still around his shoulders, and sighed sadly. “I’m sorry,  Ponine.”

“Eponine,” she corrected absentmindedly, realizing once she said it that she didn’t mind anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just… _Damn_ I hate this so much. So bloody much I want this to be _over_ Eponine.”

“I know, I know,” she said softly, leaning her head against him. “I do too.”

“And I feel like…” He hiccupped. “With Ferre, I’m so _happy,_ and I _shouldn’t_ be, I don’t deserve to be when so many other people _aren’t…_ ”

“Courf, that’s a _lie,_ ” she said fiercely. “You deserve everything good in this world, and so does Combeferre. If being with him makes you happy, then _go for it._ Savor all the happiness you can, because Lord knows we’re only truly happy so often.”

He blinked, and a tear slid down his cheek. “I-I should go talk to him. Figure out what we’re going to do about-about us together. As a.. couple?”

“You should,” she agreed gently. “But first, you need to calm down. Go cool down, take a shower, because you _reek,_ and pull it together, and then go talk to him.”

“You’re a God-sent gift, Ep.”

“Ain’t it the truth. Go on.” She kissed his cheek and watched him stand and slowly make his way to the door.

“Thanks, Eponine.”

“Anytime. Angst therapist right here, at your service.”

That coaxed the smallest of smiles out of him, and he ducked into the hallway and out of sight.

When she was alone with the sleeping form of her brother once more, Eponine leaned forward so that her head was resting on the bed.

“Why me, Gav?” she groaned. “Why do they all come to _me?_ ”

~

Enjolras had come to the realization that Les Amis de l’ABC were, for once, _not doing anything._

He came to this shocking conclusion in the kitchen that morning, as he, Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet made coffee and talked, and it wasn’t a battle plan. It wasn’t a conversation interlaced with code words, or strategy, or plotting what to do next.

It was a discussion about, of all things, what kind of coffee creamer Cosette had in her father’s home.

When Enjolras mentioned that he took his black, Musichetta turned to him as though he had just announced something positively horrid.

“You _don’t,_ ” she said in awe. “But how?”

“He does,” Bossuet confirmed. “He always ordered it black at the Musain. Drove the poor wait staff crazy.”

“Especially during exams week,” Joly put in. “He’d down like six a day, all completely plain and black. Said it ‘helped him stay awake.’”

“Well, it did.” Enjolras could feel his face going red under the hawk-like gaze of Musichetta and her piercing chocolate eyes.

“Are you quite sure you are not, in fact, the antichrist?” she asked him.

“Quite,” he said, sipping the offending coffee. “I just don’t like, you know, sweets and things. I don’t like cream or sugar or flavor in my coffee.”

“He also hates sunshine, puppies, and happiness,” Bossuet informed his girlfriend as he poured his own coffee and added several spoonfuls of sugar to it.

“I can imagine,” Musichetta remarked, as Enjolras felt his face burn even more.

“It’s _good!_ ” he cried, much to the amusement of the other three.

“Sure, Enj,” Joly said, sipping his coffee, which Enjolras knew for a fact contained exactly one scoop of creamer and one of sugar. “I mean, I know that people can become addicted to a certain kind of pain, but _this…_ ”

Musichetta and Bossuet burst into laughter, drowning out Enjolras’ protests, and he eventually gave it up, accepting the teasing with a rare smile on his face.

And then he stopped, because when was the last time he’d actually really smiled?

He figured it was a sign of how badly life was going that he couldn’t remember.

“So everyone else is still asleep?” Bossuet asked, once their laughter had faded.

“I know Gav is,” Joly offered. “Eponine’s by his bedside, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are asleep, Marius is out like a light, I think Cosette’s showering, Feuilly and Jehan are still keeping watch, and I think R is down in the basement.”

“Where did he sleep last night?” asked Enjolras, ignoring the knowing look Musichetta and Joly exchanged.

 “I’m… not sure he did?” Bossuet said, asking it rather than stating it.

Joly choked on his coffee, and Musichetta whacked him on the back. When his face had returned to its natural shade and he’d stopped coughing, he spluttered out, “ _What?_ He needs sleep just as much as any of us! Maybe more… if that prison is as bad as we imagine, he probably hasn’t slept in a while.”

“He doesn’t have a bed,” Enjolras murmured. He racked his brains, trying to remember all the specifics of their rooming situation, although it was nothing permanent.

Joly and Bossuet shared a room, but he was sure Musichetta had slipped in there with them at least twice since they’d arrived at Mme. Fauchelevant’s house. Eponine was technically supposed to be rooming with Musichetta, but she had spent last night with Gavroche in the spare bedroom. Feuilly was usually in the attic, but he had spent last night sitting guard outside Montparnasse’s room, along with Jehan, who hadn't yet been assigned a bedroom. Marius and Courfeyrac roomed together. Enjolras and Combeferre supposedly shared a room, although both of them were lucky enough to get any sleep now, and sometimes they slept. Sometimes they stayed up talking.

Enjolras wanted a freaking _award_ for being a Good Best Friend last night and pretending not to notice that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were sharing the latter’s bed when Enjolras went to sleep last night.

It was great that they were together. Truly. He was thrilled for them. And according to Eponine (and, for that matter, the rest of the Amis), it had been coming for a long time.

Which prompted more unwelcome thoughts, this time about _how neglectful have I been of my friends that I don’t notice when two of them are in love?_ Then again, he wasn’t the _best_ at deciphering relationships. He hadn't even met Musichetta until the end of the civilized government, although he had at least known that Joly and Bossuet had a third counterpart.

And that raised the question of just how bad of a friend he was being.

 _“You’re just passionate about the cause, Enj. It’s fine._ ”

Courfeyrac had said those exact words months ago, when the world had first ended. Enjolras had just met Musichetta and had admitted that until this point, he never had. This brought on the _how terrible of a friend am I,_ which Courfeyrac was quick to shoot down.

Enjolras wondered if he’d be so forgiving if he realized that Enjolras had also been completely oblivious to Courfeyrac and Combeferre and their issues, too.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing that his three friends were still talking.

“Once everyone’s up,” he said, setting his coffee mug on the counter, “I’m going to call a group meeting. We need to talk about some things.”

“Such as?” Musichetta sipped her own drink, not coffee like the rest of them, but a sweetly-scented tea.

“We need to bury Bahorel,” he said.

 _That_ killed the mood. The other three’s smiles dropped off their faces and their expressions turned solemn.

“We’ve been meaning to do it for a while now,” Enjolras said quietly. “I figured that we’d better do it soon… before it gets to be too long and it gets worse.”

“Agreed,” said Bossuet. “So who wants to be the unlucky bugger that gets to tell Feuilly?”

They all exchanged pained glances, none of them wanting to be the bearer of bad news to someone already so heartbroken, until finally Joly broke in softly.

“I say we wait until everyone else is up and we’ve called the meeting.”

“Good plan,” sighed Musichetta. “Good chat, everyone. We managed to hold off the depressing, _life-is-shit-and-the-world-is-ending_ chat for almost an hour. Excellent.”

And despite the serious situation, the undoubtedly heartbreaking events that would occur later that day, Enjolras had to hide his smile.

***

Realistically, Feuilly had always known that eventually, they were going to have to bury Bahorel .

That didn’t mean he felt like it should ever happen.

He wanted it to be over and done. He didn’t want to suffer through the long and earth-shaking, life-changing ordeal of putting his best friend in the ground.

And when Enjolras asked if he wanted to say anything for Bahorel , a few words maybe, Feuilly wanted to _scream._

Feuilly didn’t want to drag up memories of his friend, however happy or honoring they may be. He wanted to keep all the inside jokes, all the good times, all the years of friendship, under wraps. For his eyes only. So that he could have something to grab ahold of when the loss and pain and _heartbreak_ became too much to bear.

Then again, he owed it to Bahorel.

And god _dammit_ for that reason and that reason alone, he was going to give the _best damn eulogy_ that the world had ever seen.

At least, that’s what he told himself. But when the time came to speak, standing over the pile of dirt that concealed his best friend, blocking out the sunlight from him forevermore, words failed him.

They’d all come to the funeral, save Gavroche and Montparnasse, still unconscious in bed, the latter under the influence of so many knockout drugs that any more would be deadly, simply because they didn’t trust him.

Cosette had been gracious but firm, not allowing the Amis to dig up her father’s front yard but being more than open to the idea of setting a place in the backyard aside for Bahorel.

The digging had been awful- every _chik_ of the shovel felt like it was digging directly into Feuilly’s chest, and the actual lowering of the makeshift box containing Bahorel almost brought him to tears alone.

Then they had piled dirt on, sealing Bahorel into the ground. Burying him. Preventing the light of the sun from ever reaching him again, and Feuilly had come dangerously close to passing out. His  breathing became heavy and _fast,_ much too fast, and he had to sit down, where he watched his best friend leave them forever through blurry vision.

When the time came for Feuilly to speak, his throat closed up and words were suddenly an unattainable feat. He tried to clear his throat but succeeded only in clogging it up further. For a long, tense moment, there was silence, save for the official sniffle or shuffling of feet from the surrounding Amis.

The group was a sorry sight. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were all connected in some way, bleary-eyed and occasionally providing tissues for each other. R was next to them, not quite in their little group huddle but attached by his hand firmly clasping Musichetta’s. Enjolras stared at the patch of dirt, no tears in his eyes but grief written all over his features, and beside him, Courfeyrac’s face was buried in Combeferre’s chest. Marius and Cosette were holding each other, tears trailing freely down booth of their cheeks. Eponine was misty-eyed, blinking hard at the ground, and Jehan was staring at his feet with one delicate hand clamped tight over his mouth.

Feuilly, still crouched on the ground by the pile of dirt trapping Bahorel in the ground, didn’t want to stand. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to go _hide._ He wanted to free his friend from his dirt prison, wake Bahorel  up, wake _himself_ up from this horrid nightmare.

Because if one year ago, you would have told Feuilly, a worker who couldn’t afford college and so got by with the four jobs he kept up, who hung out with a revolutionary group every other day at a local café, that in just one year the world would have ended, the government would have collapsed, and he would be putting his best friend in the ground, he would have laughed and walked away.

Anger, pure unbridled _rage,_ was what prompted Feuilly to lift his head, glaring at the dirt pile. He opened his mouth (to do what, he wasn’t sure- scream, cry, yell), but all that came out was something akin to a whimper .

He reburied his face in his hands, and there was silence in the circle of surrounded Amis.

Finally, a hand on Feuilly’s shoulder made him resurface from his hands. The hand squeezed comfortingly. Probably Eponine, although Feuilly didn’t look back. He let the transferred comfort fuel him into his next words, words that came out instead of getting stuck.

“Rel,” he whispered. “You brave, stupid bastard. You had to go out with a bang, didn’t you?” He wiped at his eyes furiously, not willing to let anything obscure his vision of Bahorel ’s final resting place. “You saved a life, and in doing so you got yourself killed. Sounds about right. You always were one for the dramatics. You used to come to Café Musain with bruised knuckles, bloody lips and noses, scrapes and bumps. And I would always have to patch you up because you refused to go see a doctor, you proud moron.” A choked whimper came out of his throat that may have started as a laugh, but somewhere along the line it got wedged in throat. “I wish it were as simple as a couple stitches this time, Rel. Shit, we miss you, dude. No one else kicks ass quite like you do, although some of us are coming close. Did you know I taught everyone sign language? When we were all trapped in the cellar. I missed you then. I miss middle school, when we sat together at lunch and made fun of everyone else in sign language so they couldn’t understand us. I _miss_ you, shit, I do, Rel. Where are you?”

Dead silence, and now Feuilly could appreciate the accuracy of that statement. _Dead silence._ The heavy, suffocating quiet surrounding them was truly deathly.

And it scared Feuilly _shitless._

“I miss you,” he said again. “ _Dammit_ why did you have to go? Why did you leave me?”

A deep, rattling breath came out of him, and he closed his eyes, feeling the comforting hand squeeze his shoulder again. “I loved you, you stupid son of a bitch. I loved you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life and we were going to make it work, didn’t you know? You were going to come home and we were going to work this shit out. We _were._ And then you had to go and mess shit up by dying.” Feuilly laughed, quite possibly to keep from sobbing aloud. “You’ve always got to mess shit up. It’s who you are and _goddammit_ I love you for it you stupid idiot.”

One more long, slow, shaky breath.

_Just one more thing._

_Then we’re done._

“I love you, Rel,” he whispered, barely audible. “I love you so much. Even if you were an idiot.”

Then he did stand, wiping his traitorous eyes once more, and the hand on his shoulder followed him up to settle familiarly once more, providing an anchor to Feuilly. _You’re not alone. We’re here for you._

He turned, expecting the weary but sparkling brown eyes of Eponine, the slight smile he would find upon her face that would somehow convey everything that words could not.

Instead he found green eyes boring into his own, unreadable and curious. _Alien._ The hand on his shoulder suddenly slipped off as Jehan caught sight of the look on Feuilly’s face and stepped back. The look in his eyes, however, remained the same. _Sympathetic._

An emotion Feuilly never thought he would see in the eyes of Prouvaire.

He blamed the grief, the rage, the emotional instability of Bahorel ’s burial, for what he did next.

He sighed, as if resigned to his fate of being an emotional sap, then, stepping forward, he enveloped Jehan in a hug that the other seemed surprised to get at first, then accepted and returned.

Today was an off day, Feuilly decided. Anything could happen.

So he accepted it. Let it be.

And hoped he wouldn't regret this later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S O r R y 
> 
> -byrd


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is arguing, stupid decisions that are vetoed almost instantly (god bless combeferre amiright) and a dark green pen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT?!? I'M U P D A T I N G ? ! ? IMPOSSIBLE
> 
> no but seriously it is good to be back to my first child (by which i mean this fic) i have been slightly busy nurturing my other children (by which i mean all my newsies fics on here) and im glad to be back
> 
> y'all ready for a super long author's note? no? fantastic!!!anyways
> 
> what's been happening in the life of byrd?well for those of you who care: i took on eight separate roles in our school play and managed to pull them all off it was fantastic
> 
> aaaaaaaand i got friends obsessed with musicals (one with next to normal and one with les mis, newsies, next to normal, AND hamilton (poor bugger))
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand i got obsessed with the raven cycle (send help)
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand i became even more immersed in the newsies fandom (if you couldnt tell from my, what, hundred new fics on here that have nothing to do with les mis?)
> 
> so this chapter isnt super eventful or anything but there is some slight exr if you squint which is always a plus tbh
> 
> and for those of you wondering: no, i still dont have an end point for this stupid piece of garbage i have NO idea what's happening or how im going to end this soooooooooooooo
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

_Next Chapter Yay_

Enjolras called a group meeting almost as soon as they got back inside.

It was with good reason that he did it; they all knew that they needed to continue. Move on. Now that Bahorel  was (for lack of a softer term) _taken care of,_ they needed to get back on track with their mission.

Their mission.

R had been in their group for a very short amount of time, but even he understood- their ultimate plan was to get the current leaders of the government off of their seats of power and restore rights to the people. _All_ the people.

What came next, he had no idea. But at least Les Amis were more put-together than a few rebels bombing a base with nothing more than a few explosives and a prayer.

So it made sense that they needed to have a meeting, figure things out. But directly following Bahorel ’s funeral wouldn’t have been R’s ideal time to have a serious discussion.

Their group was still very much a mess. Most of them were wiping away tears that just kept coming. Eponine excused herself on the way to the living room to check on her little brother, and her voice was husky and cracked on Gavroche’s name. Enjolras looked just as stoic and noble as ever, but his eyes betrayed him- open and vulnerable. _Sad._ He had just buried his friend. He had every goddamn right to be sad, yet for some reason he thought that putting on a brave face was necessary.

Not really, R thought, looking around. Marius and Cosette’s hands were still clasped tightly together, although whether that was for her benefit or his was anyone’s guess. Jehan and Feuilly had broken their hug rather quickly and awkwardly, but now they walked side by side, a respectable distance between them. Combeferre and Courfeyrac weren’t even _trying_ to be subtle anymore, hand-in-hand, Courfeyrac’s head on Combeferre’s shoulder when they sat down in the living room.

Musichetta still had R’s hand in hers, which he took to mean as a sign that she did _not_ in fact want him to leave her side. Neither Joly nor Bossuet, who were linked together and to her on her other side, seemed to mind, either, so R accepted it. He didn’t mind these three at all. They weren’t overly loud or annoying, and Bossuet had the sort of self-deprecating humor that R loved and had used so often before he was robbed of the ability to speak.

As they all settled in, Enjolras stood at the front of the group, for once looking unsure of himself, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, eyes scanning the room. When they fell across R, joining Musichetta and her boys on the largest couch, R held his gaze and flashed him a grin, trying to convey with his eyes what he never could out loud. _You’re fine. You’ve got this, fearless leader._

Perhaps the exact message didn’t get across, but Enjolras seemed to get reassurance from R’s smile. His shoulders relaxed, and the hardness behind his eyes softened just a bit.

Feuilly was, as expected, a wreck. Pale and tired looking, his eyes darted around as well like a slightly more tired version of Enjolras’, but whenever he caught someone else’s eye, he smiled weakly, as though the slight upturn of his lips would mask the fact that he hadn't stopped shaking since they had put his best friend in that box and lowered him into the ground.

“Alright,” Enjolras said, calling the slight murmuring of the group to order. “Everyone here?”

“Eponine,” said Jehan. He was seated next to Feuilly, but unlike in the basement hideout, they weren’t scooted to opposite ends from each other, loathing all over their features. Instead, they were a friendly distance away, comfortable in each other’s presence. “We’re missing Eponine.”

“I’ll fill her in,” volunteered Cosette. “You can start.”

Enjolras let out a sigh. “Alright,” he said again. “We need a plan.”

“Oh wait, this is my cue.” Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “No freaking _shit,_ Enj.”

Enjolras glared at him. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Courfeyrac snapped. “We _do_ need a plan. _Now._ Before anything else happens and this whole group goes to shit.”

 _Again,_ R thought.

“What…” Cosette looked like she was already regretting her next words. “What exactly is your ulterior motive here?”

“Overthrow the government,” Enjolras said instantly. “Get rid of whoever’s in charge.”

 _And then what?_ R thought.

“And then what?” Joly asked.

Bossuet nodded. “Do _we_ rule the country, or put someone else in charge? And how do we know they won’t just turn into tyrants, too?”

Enjolras frowned. “Well, I suppose we’d have to put someone competent in charge… but overall, the people would rule. That’s what we’re fighting for, after all. Freedom. A voice for the people.”

Silence followed this, and then-

“So what now?” That was Marius.

“How _exactly_ are we planning on overthrowing an entire _government,_ Enj?” Courfeyrac asked. “The causing problems and stealing shit and fleeing the scene was cute and all, but did we really do any damage?”

Combeferre shrugged. “I mean, we stole some important things from them, information and data and such, but nothing paralyzing. Nothing vital. How do we knock out the entire system?”

“What the hell would we have to steal-” Jehan started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“We wouldn’t steal anything. That’s clearly ineffective, so we have to go bigger. We have to destroy things. Destroy the government.”

“As in, kill people?” Musichetta asked. “Do we just bust in there and kick ass until everyone’s dead or they’ve surrendered?”

“You and I both know we don’t have the firepower or numbers for that,” Enjolras sighed. “That’s why we need a plan.”

“A plan to do what?” Combeferre asked. “We can’t just bust in that building and start shooting. That’s suicide, and will get us all either killed or arrested.”

“I _know_ ,” huffed Enjolras in frustration. “So we need a _sensible_ plan.”

“Welcome to Les Amis de l’ABC,” Courfeyrac muttered sarcastically. “Where _sensible_ has never been, and never will be, part of the equation.”

A few people snickered. R grinned, and Enjolras’ jaw tightened in irritation.

“You said we don’t have the firepower or numbers,” noted Cosette. “Is there any way to get it?”

“No,” said Enjolras. Then he hesitated. “I mean, not logically, no.”

Combeferre leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, we _know_ who has the numbers and the power and the ability to wipe out an entire government.” Enjolras’ face took on one of thoughtfulness. “We just don’t have any way of _getting_ said resources.”

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting-”

“That we team up with Patron Minette to overthrow the government?” Combeferre cut in. “Enjolras, are you alright?”

“Seeing things? Having hallucinations? Have you hit your head in the past twenty-four hours?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Shut up,” Enjolras snapped. “I’m not crazy. I’m trying to think of a plan.”

“And just what is wrong with minding our own damn business?” Feuilly demanded. “Taking down the government is one thing, but Patron Minette is just plain _evil,_ Enj.”

“But they do have some good ideas, and sometimes we’ve got to-” Enjolras paused, made a face, then pressed on. “Sometimes we’ve got to pair up with... undesirable allies.”

 _Allies?_ ” Musichetta demanded. “Enjolras, _they aren’t our allies!_ ”

“But they _could_ be,” Enjolras argued.

“Have you missed the part where they’re _murderers_ and _drug dealers?_ ” Courfeyrac demanded.

“Plus, they aren’t working to overthrow the government, Enj,” Combeferre put in. “They’re just working to create destruction and wreak havoc. We don’t have a common goal here.”

“Yes, but we _could._ ” Enjolras sounded frustrated, but also like he wasn’t going to back down, which R thought was very admirable, but _seriously._ This was _insane._

“We _do_ have their leader in… a form of captivity,” Jehan mused aloud, and Feuilly turned to him with a look of outrage on his face.

“You can’t take _his side!_ ” he hissed. He turned to look at the group at large. “Or have you forgotten that we buried a team member today because of those bastards?”

Silence. Everyone seemed to be thinking this over, processing this reminder. For the most part, everyone looked doubtful or angry at Enjolras’ suggestion of teaming up with Patron Minette. Jehan had sounded like he agreed with Enjolras, but he also had an excellent poker face, so R couldn’t be sure.

“We have an alliance with their leader,” Enjolras said finally.

“Yeah, a _shitty_ alliance,” Courfeyrac snapped. “One where he tries to kill Gavroche, so Eponine shoots him and we keep him under heavy guard as he recovers. Hell if any of us know what’s going to happen when that son of a bitch wakes up. Maybe he’ll try to kill someone else, and maybe this time he’ll succeed! _Again!”_

The last sentence came out as a strangled sob, and Combeferre squeezed his hand tightly, but even the warm pressure wasn’t enough to calm Courfeyrac down.

“But if we have  Montparnasse, then we can bargain with Patron Minette,” Enjolras tried.

“False.” That was Eponine, standing in the doorway, having just come back from checking on her brother. Her eyes were puffy and red, but she still looked scary as hell, especially with the murderous look she was shooting at Enjolras. “They’d just as soon murder Parnasse themselves than make any sort of bargain to get him back. Patron Minette doesn’t run by an honor code. They don’t have morals. They’re liars and cheats and…” she trailed off, then took a deep breath. “And if we make an alliance with them, it’d be suicide. Worse than suicide. You _can’t_ , Enj.”

Enjolras sighed, as if resigned to it. “I know. I know that could never work. But I just- it’s just so _frustrating,_ not having a plan, not even having an inkling of an idea…”

R thought, then, of the rebels, of Riley, of the rest of his friends (well, _friends_ was a stretch, but _comrades_ ). Where were they now? He had left Riley in the building when the bomb had knocked him out, and Lord only knew where the rest of the people involved with the base bombing had gone, or what had happened to them.

He struggled to remember. They had been a small group, but they got shit done, working undercover, freeing prisoners whenever they could. On the mission that he’d abandoned Riley on, R and Riley had gone undercover into the base to plant the bombs and free whoever they could. Riley was still back there, dead or imprisoned, and the others? His partners?

He struggled to remember their names. There had been a little girl named… Aggy? Azzy? Something like that. A stern, no-nonsense man named….Javier? A slightly paranoid older woman who called herself The Bird… another man and a few others that he couldn’t recall. He felt slightly guilty about it, but now he had Les Amis. They were working to overthrow the government, just like his old group, and who knew? Maybe they would reconnect later on, team up, take on the gov-bots together.

After all, his old group had bombs, and while there weren’t a lot of them, they had gotten the job done…

 _They had had bombs._ And the _ability to plant them._

He meant to tap Musichetta’s arm, but it was excited and frantic and was more like a smack. She turned to look at him, and he pantomimed writing something down. _I need my paper._

She nodded and glanced around the room. When the notebook failed to make a reappearance, she leaned over and tapped Cosette.

“He needs a notebook,” she murmured, and Cosette thought about it for a moment before getting up and going into the kitchen. She returned with a pad of paper and a dark green ballpoint pen, which R gratefully accepted. He uncapped the pen hurriedly and began to write, and once he was done, he passed it to Musichetta.

_I have friends/allies/acquaintances- ones who bombed the base, got us out. They have bombs & people- not a lot, but they’re friendlier than P.M. Should we give it a try or no? _

Musichetta read it and seemed to mull over it for a moment, then passed it to Enjolras.

“R wrote this… here,” she said, and Enjolras took it.

It was a tense few moments, because god _dammit_ Enjolras was _such_ a slow reader, and it was giving R anxiety. He would probably absolutely hate the idea, think there were too many risks, veto instantly and make R look like a fool—

“This is actually…” Enjolras began, after a tense few minutes, and R braced himself.

“This is actually a fantastic idea, R.”

R’s eyes snapped upward to meet Enjolras’, because _what. No way_ Enjolras had liked his plan.

“And you’re sure these friends will help us?” Enjolras asked, passing the notepad back. “Or… allies. Acquaintances. Whichever. You’re sure they’re willing?”

R accepted the notepad and wrote, _just let me do the talking_

“Wait, what?” asked Courfeyrac, who hadn't gotten to see the paper.

“Yeah, recap it for the rest of us,” Jehan said.

“R’s got some friends. The little band of rebels who bombed the base and freed all those prisoners?” Enjolras asked. When the group mumbled agreement, he went on. “And these friends actually have the firepower to bomb the government base- they’ve done it before, right?”

R nodded.

“And they’ll do it again,” Combeferre guessed. “Well, now we have a common goal. You think they’ll work with us, R?”

_They’ll do anything to take out the gov’t. A lot of them have personal connections, personal reasons for revenge._

Musichetta read it aloud for everyone, and Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged glances.

“It could work,” Combeferre relented.

“It could _definitely_ work,” Enjolras said with a nod. He turned to R. “Where do we find this group?”

_I wish I could tell you, but they keep relocating. Safety reasons, and all that. But I know they’d stay in the city. Close to the base- so they can monitor it, watch for activity._

“We can search around the city,” Joly offered. “Keep looking until we find them.”

Feuilly frowned. “All this time, and we haven’t come across them _once_? They’re _good._ ”

“A little _too_ good,” Eponine said with a frown. “What if we still can’t find them?”

_We’ll find them_

“Alright,” said Enjolras, who sounded relieved. R could definitely relate. “So now we have a plan. Break for lunch, and then meet back in here to discuss who we’re sending out there to find these mysterious rebels.”

“Go team,” Courfeyrac muttered drily, as everyone began to get up and make their way into the kitchen to get food. Enjolras flashed R a grin, most likely as a thank you for the idea, but R could still feel his face burning. He looked down and busied himself with closing the notepad, stacking it neatly on the coffee table along with the green pen so that he knew where it was next time he needed it, and when he looked up, he was the last one in the room.

Well, almost.

Because Eponine and Combeferre were standing by the stairs- she had obviously pulled him aside, and now they were talking in hushed tones. R didn’t mean to eavesdrop, ducking his head awkwardly as he passed them on his way to the kitchen, but he heard a part of their conversation, and it was quite possibly the worst part to overhear.

“-Red streaks up his arm, Ferre,” Eponine was saying in an urgent tone. “I’m not a doctor, but-”

“It could be bad,” Combeferre agreed gravely. “I’ll take a look at it. Right now, in fact. Come on-” and then R left the room, their voices cut off, the only noise the slight _creak_ ing as Eponine and Combeferre ascended the stairs, presumably to Gavroche’s room.

_It could be bad._

And suddenly, for perhaps the first time since the civilized government had ended, R was afraid for someone that he barely knew. This crazy ten-year-old, who R had only known briefly, both back at the base and here at Cosette’s house, was in serious danger. _Eponine_ was scared for him, and anything that scared Eponine, R had no desire of knowing.

 _Please, just let the kid be okay,_ he thought, directing it to anyone up in the sky who was listening. _Please. Just let Gavroche live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok someone tell me if my writing skills are a bit rusty it's been a while since i've tended to this child (fic)
> 
> oh and i changed my tumblr url (again) @to-thc-rcvolution
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> *waves*
> 
> -byrd


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things happen, there is too much tension to be healthy, and eponine is actually queen of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greetings, fellow humans
> 
> i wrote and edited this while watching the 25th anniversary of les mis and lemme just say gavroche is my favorite character to ever exist alright 
> 
> such a shame i treat him so badly in this fic
> 
> sorry dude
> 
> also: sAM BARKS FOR PRESIDENT OF THE PLANET OK
> 
> this has been a largely uneventful day tbh
> 
> i mean i stole kevin's phone and texted "potato toddlers" to a random contact so that happened
> 
> kevin also said that someday they might catch up on this fic when they have "enough time" 
> 
> (they're only on like chapter 15 God bless u kevin)
> 
> gavroche's little song right after stars is officially my favorite thing to ever happen play it at my wedding play it at my funeral play it at my kid's weddings
> 
> yes
> 
> i think i'll watch the movie newsies tonight because this is doing nothing to cheer me up and badly dancing newsboys will definitely cheer me up ok

_Chapter Something_

After scraping together whatever they could find for lunch, no one really felt like meeting again so soon, so Enjolras called off the meeting and gave everyone the afternoon off.

Which Cosette greatly appreciated, because making theoretical plans was one thing. Actually carrying out those plans, going out into what was left of the destroyed city, was another.

Not to mention the entire group was exhausted and still recovering from Bahorel’s funeral, and exhausted, depressed people were bound to make terrible decisions. It was a proven fact that she had seen so many times with her father and his work. Someone was too tired, they tried to go out anyways, they got injured or killed.

So no, now was not the time to act on their plans to find R’s friends. They all needed a break, and Cosette found it interesting to see how each person used said break.

Enjolras got on his laptop, seemingly unable to rest even for a moment, although the internet was sketchy at best, so who knew whether he was getting any results. Combeferre and Eponine hadn't returned from Gavroche’s room, and Cosette tried not to think about the fact that this was probably not a good thing. Feuilly was up guarding Montparnasse’s door just in case the criminal woke, which Cosette figured was wise, but she still felt as though Feuilly was getting the bum end of the deal here- being made to stand watch even on break. He had said he didn’t mind, but Feuilly would run himself into the ground for his friends, so perhaps his word wasn’t the truest.

Joly, Musichetta, Bossuet, and R were all playing cards on the floor of the living room. One of them must have brought the cards, because Cosette wasn’t sure her papa owned any decks anymore. She didn’t recognize the game they were playing, but every minute or so, someone would smack a card down with a triumphant sound, and the other three would groan.

She wasn’t positive where Marius or Courfeyrac were, but she could see Jehan out on the porch, hunched over  a book, which surprised her. Jehan hadn't struck her as the peaceful, sit-down-and-read type, but he seemed deeply immersed, what was left of his hair since his captivity tied back into a tiny braid and put over one shoulder, where one finger twirled absentmindedly in the curl at the end.

Suddenly, music started playing- plucky, loud music that echoed throughout the entire house. It seemed to be coming from upstairs, but even as Cosette started up the steps to investigate, Marius’ voice howled, “Make it _stop!_ ”

“You can’t stop this _art!_ ” Courfeyrac hollered back, and the music increased in tempo and volume. It sounded as though he was playing some sort of stringed instrument, but Cosette couldn’t identify it without seeing it.

The group on the ground playing cards had stopped momentarily and were glancing up at the ceiling, Joly with awe, the others with revulsion.

“What is that _ungodly_ sound?” Musichetta said, eyes towards the stairs as though she hoped it would stop. “Someone kill it with fire. _Please._ ”

“ _Courf!”_ Marius yelled.

The music stopped, and Courfeyrac said, “You have no appreciation for _music,_ you ass!”

“Music?” Bossuet demanded. “My ears are bleeding!”

“ _Assholes and hypocrites, the lot of you_!” Courfeyrac shrieked, and then there was a thud. Marius came sprinting down the stairs, catching Cosette by the arm halfway down and pulling her along after him.

“We’ve got to escape!” he giggled breathlessly, and tugged her out onto the porch to avoid Courfeyrac and that horrid noise he called music.

~

Eponine was trying to remember how to breathe.

Because Combeferre was a stoic and steady med student, a rock to cling to when the storms of stress got to be too much. He was calm and only got really angry when necessary. He was trained for emergencies and medical disasters. He didn’t panic.

Only now, he looked scared shitless.

“Ep…” he murmured, surveying the scene before him. Gavroche was lying in the bed, unconscious. He was deathly pale, and his face had taken on an unnatural ashy color. If it hadn't been for the slight rise and fall of his tiny chest signaling breath, Eponine wouldn’t have even thought her little brother was still alive at all.

But it was still there. He was still alive.

_For now._

“Ep, it’s bad,” Combeferre said. “These…” He pointed to the red marks, weaving their way up what was left of Gavroche’s arm. “These are signs of blood poisoning.”

_Blood poisoning._

One of Thenardier’s thugs had gotten blood poisoning once, back before the civilized government had ended. A bullet wound to the upper thigh had been left untreated, because naturally Thenardier hadn't given a shit, and within a few days, those familiar red streaks had begun creeping their way up the goon’s leg. He’d made the mistake of showing it to Montparnasse, perhaps thinking the assassin would help him, maybe get him to a hospital.

Instead, Montparnasse had shot him on the spot. Even back then, no member of Patron Minette could afford to be seen at a hospital, even under heavy disguise. Simpler just to get rid of the liability- because that was all the thug was anymore. No one took into account his merits, or his accomplishments, or how useful he’d been in the past. As soon as those red marks appeared, he became just that- a _liability._

 _Gavroche is not a liability,_ she reminded herself. _He is not expendable. He is not useless. He_ will _get better._

“What-what can we do about it?” Eponine asked in a gravelly voice.

Combeferre opened his mouth, then closed it, using the pretense that he was still examining the arm to avoid answering, even though Eponine knew he’d already examined all he could a minute ago.

“I’m not sure… there’s probably something we can do for it,” he said, but his voice was hollow. He sounded helpless, and that scared the crap out of Eponine.

“You don’t know,” she whispered. “You don’t know how to fix it, do you?’

His expression told her all she needed to know.

“You _bastard_ ,” she hissed. Some rational part of her brain was trying to make her see reason, telling her that getting pissed at Combeferre was not the answer to her problems, that he had done what he could, that without his and Joly’s efforts, Gavroche would have bitten dust long ago, but she was so _angry_ that she ignored reason.

“You’re an effing _doctor,_ do something!” she cried.

“Ponine-”

“ _Eponine_ ,” she spat, because there were only two people allowed to call her _Ponine,_ a sick, maybe dying boy, and a heartbroken one. Her brother, and the one so close he might as well have been.

“Eponine,” he relented. “I did all I could, and I’ll continue to work my hardest, but the fact is-”

“I don’t _want_ to know the bloody facts!” she cried, and suddenly there were tears, fat and hot, rolling down her cheeks. “I want you to _save my brother!_ ”

“Eponine-”

“No! Shut up! Just- just shut up,” she whispered, because now the tears were coming faster and her voice was cracking like mad. “Shut up and _fix my goddamn baby brother._ ”

“Eponine, we need serious antibiotics to solve blood poisoning. We need a trained professional-”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Can’t you do it?”

“I’m a _med student,_ Ep,” Combeferre corrected.

“Same effing difference. Didn’t they teach you this shit at med school?” That rational part of her brain was back, arguing that this wasn’t fair, that Combeferre was not the one at fault here, but she pushed it down and let the words flow out. “You should know how to _do this,_ you’ve got to _fix him_ , you’ve got to _heal_ him…”

Now there were full-out sobs coming from her chest, which ordinarily would have been embarrassing, but she couldn’t even consider humiliation when her baby brother could be  dying as they spoke. As she sobbed. As Combeferre tried to reassure her that a hopeless situation was maybe not so hopeless, which was bullshit and they both knew it.

“Eponine… there’s no way we could get our hands on the medicine needed…” Combeferre trailed off. “I mean, unless the government has some? But even then-”

“It’s a suicide mission.” Eponine furiously wiped at her eyes. “Got it, thanks.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” he whispered, apparently giving up on trying to console her. Which she appreciated- she wasn’t an idiot, after all. But if there was really _nothing they could do-_

“When we bomb the base,” she said suddenly, anger hardening her mucked up throat. “ _If_ we bomb the base, with R and his friends and their explosive toys and things. I’m going in beforehand, getting some of that shit. Because you _know_ they have it, deep in their reserves, to treat officials and whatnot. Once I’m to, then you all can go crazy with your bombs and shit. But you’ve got to let me get the medicine first.”

“Eponine, that’s really-”

“Stupid. Reckless. A death wish. Shut your trap, Ferre, I know what I’m doing. But you’ve got to swear to me that you’ll let me go in and get it.”

“Ep-” He looked alarmed that she would suggest such a thing, and she could tell he was about to refuse her, so she grabbed onto his arm and held on tight, her jagged nails probably digging into his skin, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“ _Swear it to me,_ Combeferre, or I swear to God…”

She wasn’t sure exactly _what_ she was swearing, but thankfully, Combeferre didn’t ask for an elaboration.

“I-I promise,” he finally said, then instantly looked as though he regretted it. “Wait, no. Eponine, you _can’t._ So many things could go wrong. You could be captured, or killed, or we could unknowingly bomb the base with you still in it, or-”

“ _I don’t care,_ ” Eponine spat. “Sometimes we do stupid things for love, alright? And I’d do anything for him. I mean it, too. If reversing the orbit of the goddamn _earth_ was the way to save Gav, I’d find some way to do it, you _know_ I would.”

“I-I know,” he whispered. “And I get it, Ep, I really do, but- what if something goes wrong?”

“Ferre, he risked his life for me back at the base. When he put me in the car and stayed behind to hold off the gov-bots, he could have died. He was probably expecting to. I’m willing to make the same kind of sacrifice for him.”

Combeferre swallowed, glancing down at the boy in question, who had begun to frown in his sleep. “I know, Ep.”

“And you understand, don’t you? Why I’ve got to get whatever medicine they’ve got if it could save him?”

Another swallow. He nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” she sighed, and could feel her shoulders relaxing. She found a seat in the chair beside Gavroche’s bed, and Combeferre, obviously sensing that his expertise was no longer needed, left the room with only a, “Call if you need anything.”

Eponine sat by her brother’s bedside for an indeterminable amount of time, determined to memorize every line and curve and scratch and scar of him. She ran a soft hand through his hair, finding a fair amount of dirt and crud from his many adventures. His skinny legs were covered in scratches, and one of his ankles was in a hastily done splint, but even that seemed mediocre compared to the hideous stump where the rest of his fully functioning, working, healthy arm had once been.

She studied his face, the slight frown he wore in his sleep, the tiny nicks and scratches dotting the surface of his skin. She watched his eyes dart around underneath his eyelids and wondered what he was dreaming about. She thought about his bright, imaginative eyes, and prayed to the heavens once more that she would get to see those blue eyes again, preferably full of laughter and life, not hardened by life’s events and hardships.

The world wasn’t ready to exist without Gavroche, the dreamer and pretender who had been forced to grow up too quickly but who had still retained his childlike personality. The little demon who could outwit even the best conmen and charm a beggar out of his last loaf of bread. The little sprite, who danced in alleyways and on rooftops and all sorts of places where a ten-year-old didn’t belong, and yet he just seemed to _fit._ The little monster who had dismantled Combeferre’s security system and snuck into a government base not once but _twice,_ who had gotten himself captured and then busted out again. The boy who made up crude songs and cracked bad jokes and understood innuendos he probably shouldn’t have. The child of thieves who knew the night as well as the day. Who could see in the dark. Who knew the best cons and tricks and heists. Who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a man, given the right reasons, but who was so fiercely loyal to those he loved that he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice his own life.

 _Gavroche._ The very embodiment of what they were fighting for. Freedom. The people, crazy and messed up though they were.

_Life._

Eponine watched him sleep and tried not to think about the very real possibility of his heart stopping, his breaths ceasing to come.

Of course, the fact that she was trying _not_ to think about it just made it all the more easy to imagine, and she was beyond relieved when there came a knock on the door.

“What do you want?”

Feuilly. “It’s me.”

She exhaled, long and slow. “Come on in.”

He poked his head in. “I won’t intrude for long, because I get that you need alone time with him, but I just thought you ought to know that Montparnasse is awake.”

She’d been watching Gavroche, but _that_ got her attention, and her eyes snapped upward to  meet Feuilly’s brown ones. “What?”

“Yeah, he sat up and started cussing at me, but he doesn’t seem to be able to get out of bed yet, which is good.”

“Am I-” Eponine tried hard to think, to push past the darker thoughts of her brother dying. “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

He nodded. “But I’m going down to tell the others now.”

She sighed. “Good. You do that. I’ll be right there, just hang on.”

He nodded and ducked back out of the room, and she exhaled once more, glancing at her brother.

“Gavroche,” she murmured, quietly, in case Feuilly was still in earshot. “I swear, I won’t let that bastard get away with this. I’ll make him pay for hurting you, I swear it.”

Then she kissed his forehead, and rose to follow Feuilly.

~

R was slightly bummed when Feuilly called the group upstairs because Montparnasse had awoken, because he had been _dominating_ at the card game they’d been playing.

Poor Bossuet was struggling, since his bad luck apparently extended to cards, too. Joly was surprisingly good at the _logic_ aspect of the game, and of course Musichetta was good at everything she did, so they had both given him a run for his money. But still, he had been _winning._

At least, until Feuilly made the announcement, and Musichetta had declared it a draw, “at least until we can continue.”

They gathered outside Montparnasse’s door, and Enjolras decreed (well, he _said,_ but his Official Voice made it sound like a decree) that only a few people go in, one to talk, a few more for backup, in case Montparnasse tried anything funny.

R didn’t expect to be selected, so he sat down, back against the wall, beside Bossuet and Musichetta. Joly was picked to go in so that he could check on Montparnasse’s ankle, and Eponine was, too, most likely because she was handy with a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in something vital if the criminal acted up.

Then again, R didn’t doubt _anyone’s_ ability to shoot Montparnasse anymore. The ex-leader of Patron Minette had caused so much damage, both to Gavroche and Bahorel (and by default, Eponine and Feuilly and pretty much the entire group), that no one would even bat an eye at having to do away with him.

Well, R might hesitate. But not by choice. His withdrawal and torture and overall experience in that base had altered his ability to hold a gun- his hand still shook like crazy when he had to hold anything heavier than a pen. But he wasn’t being picked to go in there and potentially have to shoot Montparnasse, so it hardly mattered.

Because the third person picked to go in was Feuilly, which R personally would not have done, but maybe Enjolras had good reason. He was going in, too, for the talking aspect of the thing. Maybe Feuilly had some secret negotiation power that R had yet to know about. Maybe Feuilly was just good to have as backup. Maybe he was just so angry that his rage could be used for good. R didn’t know.

Until they came back out, there was nothing to do, so everyone settled against the walls and on the stairs and began quiet conversations. R hadn't brought his notebook up, so he just leaned his head on Musichetta’s shoulder and let Bossuet do the talking, and tried not to think about what was going on in that room as they spoke.

~

Montparnasse was in pain.

Understandably so, since Eponine knew what she had been doing, shooting him in the ankle as opposed to somewhere else. The digging out of the bullet had been hell since it was positioned right on the joint, and then Montparnasse had passed out, although whether it was from the pain, some sort of meds they gave him, or pure exhaustion was anyone’s guess.

When he woke up, the pain was the first thing he noticed- a red-hot, fiery sensation, like a burning poker was being stuck into his foot. Then he tried to sit up, caught sight of Feuilly sitting outside the door, and spat out a curse.

Feuilly had leapt up and vanished, most likely to go tell the others that their prisoner was up, leaving Montparnasse to continue to try to sit up, hissing in pain.

Montparnasse was sure that the ginger was going to get not only an opinion on what to do next but also backup, so he wasn’t exactly surprised when Feuilly came back with three other people. Enjolras, the leader. Feuilly. The tiny little Asian one who’d dug the bullet out of Montparnasse’s foot. And Eponine, taking up the rear, with a terrifying expression and a gun already in her hand.

“Are you able to have a conversation?” Enjolras asked, because the guy was nothing if not polite.

“Well, I’m not _going_ anywhere, angel,” Montparnasse snapped. “Seeing as you’ve got weapons and I’m unarmed. Not to mention a person typically has to be able to _walk_ to get away.”

“Don’t be  a bitch, Parnasse,” Eponine snapped. “Can you talk to us or not?”

“Is that not what I’m doing?”

She leveled her handgun at him, and it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he should not be sassing a woman with a gun.

“I’ll talk,” he said, but _talk_ turned into a hiss halfway through as he tried once more to sit up and jarred his ankle.

“Joly,” said Enjolras, and the Asian stepped forward. “If you would be so kind as to check on our guest’s foot.”

Montparnasse winced as Joly probed at the bullet wound with gloved hands, but he managed not to cry out in pain. Better not to give the Amis the satisfaction.

“It’s alright,” Joly murmured, after a few minutes of absolute agony. “I mean, it’s slightly infected, but it’s nothing drastic. So long as you don’t use the foot for a few days, it should heal right up.”

He backed up, back to Enjolras’ side, and Eponine said, “Damn. I was praying it was gangrene.”  

Montparnasse glared at her, but didn’t grace the quip with a response.

“So, Montparnasse,” said Enjolras. “Are you up for talking to us?’

“I suppose,” he muttered. “Now what the hell do you want?”

“Be nice.” Feuilly apparently had a gun, too.

“We’re prepared to bargain with you,” Enjolras said in a diplomatic voice. “Just as we were in the living room earlier.”

 _Earlier._ When Feuilly had held a gun to Montparnasse’s head. When Montparnasse had grabbed the kid and put a gun to _his_ head. When Eponine had lost her temper and shot him in the foot.

“Are you? Well, that’s refreshing,” Montparnasse muttered. He felt like he was at a disadvantage here, as they were on their feet and he was trapped in the bed. They also had weapons, but if he was able to stand, he could probably get around even that obstacle. No, the main hindrance that he was facing the inability to _stand,_ god _dammit_ he was a master of thievery and cons, he should be able to bloody _stand._

“Yes,” said Enjolras, apparently unaffected by Montparnasse’s sass. “We want to negotiate with you, so listen.”

“Like I said, not going anywhere, princess.”

He ignored that. “What we said in the living room- that was all true. You were useful to us. You gave us information we needed. And we-” He sighed. “We are prepared to negotiate something with you.”

“Personally, I’m all for shooting you somewhere slightly more _vital_ than your ankle,” Eponine growled, and Feuilly’s mouth twitched up at the corners. Montparnasse resisted the urge to make a face at her and instead returned his attention to Enjolras.

“Are you planning on treating me like a _human_ this time?” he asked.

Enjolras thought about it. “Define _human._ ”

Well, at least he was honest about it.

“Are you going to keep me at gunpoint twenty four hours a day, or will you let me move around and, you know, _live_?” Montparnasse asked.

“Depends on how trustworthy you prove to be,” Feuilly said. “Which, so far, is not looking good.”

Montparnasse managed not to scoff. “How do I know you aren’t going to shoot me in my sleep tonight?”

He actually wasn’t scared of this; Les Amis weren’t the type to mercilessly kill, and besides, at this point in the world, death would be a mercy.

Predictably, Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to _trust_ us, which may be a foreign concept to you, but here in Les Amis, we operate on an honor code. So. If you prove to us that we can trust you, then we’ll start treating you as such. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“And it took four people to say this?” Montparnasse asked incredulously.

“Like I said. Trust. We have none in you right now. So.” Enjolras seemed unsure of how to end the conversation, and there was another awkward minute of silence before Eponine, apparently fed up with the lot of them, left the room. Joly followed nervously, and Enjolras nodded, satisfied with himself, before leaving, too.

Feuilly lingered, however, and glared at Montparnasse for a moment longer.

“What?” Montparnasse snapped, because his ankle had started to throb when Joly had checked it, and it had only gotten worse, which hadn't improved his mood.

“You’re a murderer,” Feuilly hissed.

“Tell me something I don’t know, ginge,” Montparnasse drawled, lowering himself back into a lying down position.

Feuilly opened his mouth as if to respond, then apparently thought better of it and closed his mouth again. He stood there for at least another thirty seconds, hand on his gun, and screw whatever Montparnasse had thought before about Les Amis because he _honestly_ thought Feuilly was going to shoot him.

But he didn’t. Instead, he lowered his hand and left the room, leaving Montparnasse alone with his thoughts and a strong wish that he was able to stand.

~

Once everyone had congregated on the couches (which is where their whole lives seemed to take place nowadays, Joly realized), minus Musichetta, who was guarding Montparnasse, and Combeferre, who was checking on Gavroche, who Enjolras called the unofficial meeting to order with a, “Well, I don’t trust him.”

“Well, I would hope not,” said Cosette mildly. “Seeing as he killed one of your friends and threatened to kill another, wounding the child in the process.”

Courfeyrac snorted loudly. “She’s got a point, Enj.”

“I know, I just…” Enjolras huffed. “I want to be able to trust him. I don’t want to have to worry about whether he’s going to slit our throats in our sleep.”

“You and I both know there’s a simple solution to that,” Jehan mused aloud. When no one spoke up, he said, “We could just kill him. He’s caused enough damage to warrant it being fair, and then we wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Then Jehan looked down and picked at a loose thread in his shirt sleeve, seemingly indifferent to the whole matter, which was scary. _Very_ scary. The old Jean Prouvaire wouldn’t have been so casual about taking someone’s life, no matter how bad of a person they were.

Joly shuddered and curled tighter into Bossuet’s side. Yet another reason the government had to be taken down- because when they got ahold of people, _good_ people, like Jehan and Eponine and Bahorel  and Gavroche, shitty things happened.

“He’s got a point,” Feuilly said, and he sounded just as off-hand about it, which was slightly terrifying. “That _would_ take care of the danger.”

“We can’t,” Bossuet, God bless him, blurted out. “We can’t just- I mean. We can’t kill him. Can we?”

“We aren’t _going_ to kill him,” Enjolras said, shooting a glare at Jehan and Feuilly. Feuilly ducked his head, but Jehan stared his leader in the face, completely unashamed of his idea.

“At least not yet,” Enjolras continued. “Not until he does something else.”

“What are you _waiting for?_ ” Eponine exploded suddenly. “Him to _kill_ someone? You don’t _know_ him like I do, Enjolras, and it’s only going to get _worse!_ You think he’s going to act mild and tame just for us? _No._ He’s playing you, all of you, and if you’re too _squeamish_ or worried about your _perfect morals_ to shoot him, then I will!”

She had risen to her feet as she said this, and now she was eye-to-eye with Enjolras, glaring at him, daring him to argue. Just when it looked like he was about to say something, Combeferre called from upstairs, “Eponine?”

Without looking away from Enjolras, she called back, “Coming!”

Then she jabbed a finger at Enjolras. “We aren’t finished with this conversation, _Monsieur._ I’ll be back. Until then, try not to let your big head get in the way of your leadership.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and stalked away, up the stairs, to where Combeferre was waiting at the top.

And even though it was soft and low, the room was so quiet from the aftershock of Eponine’s outburst that they heard Combeferre’s statement loud and clear.

“It’s your brother. Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA PLEASE DON'T HURT ME 
> 
> I KNOW MY WRITING DOESN'T REFLECT IT BUT I ACTUALLY LOVE GAVROCHE A LOT 
> 
> YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I LIVE *hides under bed*
> 
> i just had to take a break from typing this AN because it was eponine's part of one day more and i had to properly appreciate the queen in all her glory 
> 
> alright but who do i have to kill to make sure that nick jonas is never in another production of les mis again
> 
> but anyways!!! hope you liked!!! i have no discernable plan from here on out so i might update this occasionally, might write some newsies occasionally, might sit on the ground and cry more than occasionally
> 
> yes
> 
> hope y'all are doing alright. love you all
> 
> -byrd


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things are not as hopeless as they seem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here goes nothing

_The Next Chapter, Whichever One It May Be_

Silence, Cosette thought, was a dangerous thing.

It filled the living room the instant Combeferre and Eponine vanished up the stairs, suffocating and intense, and no one seemed to want to be the one to break it.

Until finally, Feuilly groaned and put his head in his hands. “ _More_ drama?”

Nervous, breathy laughter from several of the Amis. Cosette smiled thinly.

“I can’t take much more bad news,” Joly said unhappily.  

Bossuet leaned back against the couch cushion and sighed. “Our whole _life_ seems like just one piece of bad news after another.”

“Well… you aren’t _wrong,_ exactly,” said Marius, nervously twisting his hands together in his lap. “But can’t we focus on some good things, too?”

Everyone looked at him, and his ears went adorably pink. “I mean, we don’t _have to_ …”

“No, that’s an excellent idea,” Cosette said, taking his hands and stilling them. “Lord knows we could all use some reminders of how lucky we are right now. Who’ll go first?”

“Well, we’re still alive,” pointed out Courfeyrac. “And most of us are in decent health.”

“And the murderer in one of the upstairs bedrooms who could theoretically come and slit our throats at any time is incapacitated and can’t walk. That’s good news, isn't it?” murmured Jehan.

Head still in his hands, Feuilly swatted at him. “Let’s be _positive,_ J.”

“We have shelter,” Bossuet pointed out.

“Yes, this lovely home that Cosette is letting us use,” Enjolras said. It was his first contribution to the conversation, as he had been uncharacteristically quiet since Eponine had gotten in his face and then stormed off. Maybe he was rethinking his decision to let Montparnasse stay with them.

Cosette hoped so. She didn’t have a history with Patron Minette like Les Amis did, but even she knew they were bad news, and Montparnasse especially so. Keeping him alive, even under heavy guard, seemed like a foolish idea. He could kill them, any of them, at any time, and Cosette wasn’t normally one for violence, but even she thought that perhaps it would be best if he was out of the picture.

“And we have Cosette,” said Marius quietly. Then he ducked his head bashfully and went red, and he only went redder when Cosette kissed his cheek.

“Get a _room_ , you two,” Courfeyrac groaned.

“But yes, Mademoiselle Cosette is definitely a blessing,” Enjolras added, and nodded to her.

She nodded back. She thought that it was a compliment, but with Enjolras, it was sometimes hard to be sure. For all she knew, _blessing_ was synonymous to _convenience_ or _person who was in the right place at the right time_.

“We’ve got food,” Courfeyrac mused. “Continuing with our _blessings,_ and whatnot. And I’ve got my ukulele.”

“Is _that_ what I heard?” asked Cosette. “Fascinating.”

“What did you think it was?” Courfeyrac asked.

“It sounded like a dying guitar,” Marius whispered to Cosette, and she giggled.

“That was quite a… um.” Joly seemed unable to flat-out say that the ukulele playing had been less than fantastic, and so he shrugged helplessly and turned to his boyfriend.

“Well, it was very _enthusiastic_ ,” said Bossuet carefully.

Courfeyrac beamed. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week, ladies and gents.”

“That’s what I’m scared of,” Feuilly murmured, and Jehan choked to hide a laugh.

“Feuilly, you _wound_ me,” Courfeyrac said with a pout. “Just because you can’t appreciate _good music_ …”

Feuilly looked as though he was about to respond, and whatever he said was bound to dig him even deeper into the argument, so Cosette stepped in and said, “What were you playing, Courf?”

Courfeyrac pointed to her, “Twelve hundred points for actually having an interest in my music, _Feuilly. For your information,_ mademoiselle, it was like a medley of _Happy Birthday to You,_ that ukulele version of _Somewhere Over the Rainbow,_ and all the showtunes I could remember, thank you for asking.”

“I see.” Cosette wasn’t sure how she kept a straight face, but she managed. “So, true music.”

“Yes _exactly!_ ” Courfeyrac cried. “I like this one. You can keep her, Marius.”

“Glad I needed your approval,” but Marius was smiling.

“This is so much nicer than _fighting_ all the time,” Enjolras murmured, and everyone turned to look at him. “What? It’s true. I _like_ you guys, believe it or not. When everyone’s arguing all the time, it’s harder to remember that.”

R held up his notebook. _Aw, we love you too, Enj_

Enjolras’ cheeks turned pink. “Yeah, well, I am allowed to have feelings, believe it or not.”

“Of course you are.” Cosette looked puzzled. “Whoever told you that you aren’t?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I just…. Sometimes it seems…” He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut briefly before opening them and continuing, “Sometimes it seems like you guys all have this expectation of me, like I’ve got to be your cold, uncaring leader. Not all the time, I love you guys and you’re great, but especially when the pressure’s high, I feel like some unfeeling and harsh _dictator._ ”

“No, Ferre’s the dictator,” Courfeyrac murmured. “You’re the fiery, golden god, and Ferre’s the dictator.”

“And what does that make _you_?” Bossuet asked.

After a moment’s consideration, Courfeyrac finally said, “The pretty one.”

He flashed a grin at Bossuet, and Enjolras groaned, putting his head in his hands.

“Don’t worry, Courf,” Cosette said with a light laugh, “I think you’re fulfilling your role.”

“Your girl-friend thinks I’m pret-ty, Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac sang gleefully, and Marius looked hopelessly at Cosette.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble,” she said, taking his hand with a smile.

“So, back to business,” Enjolras said, stepping into the conversation just as Courfeyrac opened his mouth to say something (most likely crude, and most likely about Marius and Cosette and their extreme amount of PDA). “Have we agreed on anything concerning our upstairs guest?”

“You mean the one with a bullet in his foot?” Joly asked. “Well, he’s certainly not _going_ anywhere anytime soon.”

“He’s _vulnerable,_ ” Jehan pressed. “He _can’t fight back._ ”

Feuilly sat forward. “Now would be the opportune time to take him out,” he said thoughtfully.

“You’re all _horrible,_ ” Joly cried, and looked, almost pleadingly, to Enjolras. “You can’t, Enj.”

Enjolras looked as though he wanted to scream. “We’ve already _been over this,_ ” he sighed. “We aren’t killing Montparnasse. Not yet, anyways. But we should really wait until Eponine is down here to talk about that-”

“Speaking of Eponine,” interrupted Jehan, “she raised some _excellent_ points before she marched off. Like, what are we waiting for, exactly? Him to kill one of us? It won’t be a threat this time, oh fearless leader. It won’t simply be a gun pressed to a head. It’ll be a bullet finding someone’s brain, and I don’t know about any of you, but I’d prefer that it isn't _mine!_ ”

Jehan’s voice cracked on his last word, and Cosette wanted nothing more than to give the guy a hug. No matter what Jehan said about Montparnasse, she couldn’t miss the way his thin frame shook ever so slightly, or how his eyes still held the slightly paranoid edge of someone with no faith in the world anymore.

“Jehan…” Enjolras began, then shook his head, apparently changing his mind about whatever he was about to say.

“Jehan, what’s wrong?” Marius asked quietly. Sweet Marius. Bless him, Cosette thought.

“Nothing, Marius,” Jehan snapped, and the blatant lie was made even more obvious by how fast it was spat out.

Marius shrank back, but didn’t give up. “That’s not true. Is it because you were in that base, or because of what they did to you there, or because we didn’t come for you? Why are you so _angry_ at us?”

Cosette opened her mouth, but Courfeyrac spoke first, his teasing smile from before gone. “We’re your _team,_ J. Jehan, I mean. We’re your _friends._ ”

At the slip-up of Courfeyrac’s old nickname for him, Jehan froze. Then he stood, looking Courfeyrac right in the eye.

Cosette braced herself, because Jehan’s last blowup, the one that had resulted in him calling Courfeyrac a _cheating son of a bitch,_ hadn't been pretty.

He opened his mouth, and Cosette waited for the explosion. Maybe this time he would scream, or yell, or maybe just cry. Maybe he wouldn’t raise his voice at all, and instead speak in that quiet, deadly tone he’d assumed while talking about Montparnasse.

Whatever he was about to do wasn’t going to be good, she could feel it.

But no shouting came. No yelling happened, and no blowup occurred. Instead, Jehan looked at Courfeyrac for a long moment and then audibly snapped his mouth closed. He sat back down, and Feuilly’s hands twitched, like he had been about to reach out and put a hand on Jehan’s shoulder, probably to comfort him. Cosette wasn’t positive what his intentions had been, but at any rate, his hands stayed by his side.

“So,” said Enjolras. “Let’s. Um.”

He looked at an utter loss for words, and Cosette couldn’t blame him. He was the leader. He supposedly “ran” this group. Only now, he was being forced to watch, helpless, as dramatic event after dramatic event tore said group apart.

“Let’s skip the subject of Montparnasse,” he suggested. “At least for now.”

The tension visibly left the group. Shoulders slumped, guarded expressions left faces, postures became relaxed again. Montparnasse was such a topic of _awfulness,_ for so many of them, and skipping the subject was wise.

“Topic change,” agreed Joly. He turned to R. “Your friends. You said you don’t know where they are?”

R shook his head and wrote, _Not at the moment. But I could find them_

Enjolras nodded encouragingly. “That’s good. That’s very good. So if we send you out, say, in half an hour, you would be able to find them?”

_Hopefully, yes_

“How soon?” Feuilly asked.

R shrugged, looking lost. He wrote, _two hours? two days? who the hell knows_

“That’s slightly less good,” Enjolras sighed. “What if…”

“What if we send him out for a set amount of time, and if he can’t find them, then he comes back?” suggested Courfeyrac.

Enjolras considered it. “Like… experimental missions. If he finds them, great. If not, we try again later. That could… that could work, actually.” He looked R in the eyes. “Are you alright with this?”

R started to write something, and Enjolras reached across the gap between their seats to clasp his arm. Cosette was no expert, but she was about ninety percent sure that their mute friend had just gone into cardiac arrest.

 _You’re gone,_ she thought, sympathizing with R more than ever. _So far gone, it isn't even funny._

Because now he was gaping, wide-eyed, at Enjolras, looking something like a fish out of water.

“Be honest,” Enjolras pressed, and it took R a full five seconds to nod slowly, at which point Enjolras released his arm and leaned back into his seat. It took another ten seconds of looking down at his arm in utter disbelief before he shook himself and wrote something down.

_I’m great with this_

“You’re sure?” Enjolras fixed his intense stare on R, and Cosette could practically _see_ R’s heart in his throat as he nodded.

“Well, now that that’s settled,” Jehan said lightly. “Who’s going with him?”

Enjolras started to respond, but Cosette could see this reply ending badly, and she wasn’t about to sit by and let _that_ happen, so she spoke up, cutting him off.

“We might want to wait,” she said. “Until Musichetta and Eponine and Combeferre are here to talk about it with us. One of them might want to go.”

“Good point,” Enjolras sighed, looking relieved that he didn’t have to make any more emotionally compromising decisions, at least not right now. “Meeting adjourned until we’ve got all our members here.”

“So can we finish our card game now?” Bossuet asked, sounding just as relieved.

“That’s what _meeting adjourned_ means, friend,” laughed Courfeyrac. “Be free. Go forth. Finish kicking ass at that game, and I’ll take over watching Montparnasse’s door so Chetta can join you, alright?”

“Bless you, Courf,” sighed Joly, sliding off the couch and onto the ground, where their cards were still scattered, exactly as they had left them. “And Bossuet was _not_ kicking ass. That was _me._ ”

“That was _R,_ ” Bossuet corrected, and R stuck his tongue out at Joly, then grinned.

Cosette relaxed into the couch and tightened her grip on Marius’ hand. They were alright. They would be fine. It would all work out.

She closed her eyes and tried to believe it.

~

Eponine had honestly been expecting the worst.

When Combeferre had called her upstairs with only “It’s your brother” to give her any idea of what was going on, she had expected him to be dead, honestly. She was expecting a stopped heart. Ceased breathing. And the heartbreak that would inevitably follow.

Instead, she found blue eyes following her into the room, and her knees nearly buckled from relief.

“ _Gavroche,_ ” she cried, and it was a strangled sound that was part laugh, part sob. She was at his bedside in an instant, smoothing his hair and clutching his face in both hands, crying freely and not even caring that Combeferre was in the doorway, witnessing the entire thing.

“You’re okay,” she kept saying, over and over again. “You’re _okay,_ oh my _God_ you’re alright.”

“’M fine, Ponine,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’m alright.”

“Damn right you are,” she whispered. “You’re going to be alright, you hear me? You’re going to be _fine._ Just fine. Oh my _God,_ Gav…” and she started crying again.

“So _‘motional,_ ” Gavroche complained.

Eponine whacked his arm as a reflexive instinct, but there was nothing to hit, and her fist hit the mattress instead. She gasped without meaning to, and Gavroche tilted his head in alarm.

“Wha-“

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Just… your arm, Gav.”

He closed his eyes and wiggled his arm- or what was left of it, anyways, and his face contorted in confusion.

 _He doesn’t know,_ Eponine thought, and she could feel her heart sinking as she watched her brother try to figure out why there was a bloody, bandaged stump where his fully functional arm had once been.

“Where’s m’ arm, Ponine,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a question. It was a realization. “Where’d it _go._ ”

“Gav…”

“It’s gone, ain’t it? Your doctor friends took m’ arm, didn’ they?”

Eponine squeezed her eyes shut. “Yeah, Gav.” There was no point in lying, in trying to hide it. It was his _arm,_ for goodness’ sake. “Yeah, they did.”

“But ‘m alive?”

“You’re alive,” she confirmed.

“Gavroche, I’ve got to check your vitals and such. Make sure everything’s still alright.”

She had almost forgotten Combeferre was there, but when he spoke, Gavroche jumped, then tried to play it off as repositioning his body on the bed.

Which broke Eponine’s heart, because _didn’t he know he didn’t have to be tough for her?_

Of course not. Because he was raised on the belief that emotions were weakness.

She wanted to cry some more, but instead she forced a smile onto her face as Combeferre gently checked Gavroche’s stump of an arm, then his pulse.

“What’s the verdict?” she asked, as he stepped back.

“He should be fine, Ep,” he said, and Eponine almost asked about the blood poisoning bit. Because she wanted to know. Because she _desperately needed_ to know.

But she thought about it and decided that Gavroche didn’t need anything else to worry about, so she didn’t ask. She would drill Combeferre for what was _really_ going on once they were out of earshot.

She glanced down at her brother, pale and weak-looking but _alive,_ and smoothed his hair off his sweaty forehead, then kissed it.

It was at that moment that Courfeyrac popped his head in the doorway. “They’re asking for everyone downstairs. Important decisions and shit. Missions. I don’t honestly know. Oh, hey Gav. But you two need to get your butts downstairs soon, okay? Like, soon. Okay. Love ya.”

He ducked back out, leaving Eponine and Combeferre staring after him, because Courfeyrac never ceased to amaze either of them with his quickness at picking up on things. _Oh, hey Gav._

Combeferre nodded towards the door. “I’m going downstairs. Come down soon, alright?”

“Alright,” Eponine agreed, and kissed Gavroche’s forehead one more time.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised, because no way was she leaving him alone for more than a few minutes.

Then she rose to leave, feeling his bright eyes watch her all the way to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet 
> 
> just so you all are aware, the sentence 
> 
> "At the slip-up of Courfeyrac’s old nickname for him, Jehan froze."
> 
> "froze" is the 100,000th word in this fic (at least on word docs) so
> 
> throw a party
> 
> woot woot


	32. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which byrd is an ass who puts an author's note where a chapter should be (sorry, y'all)

i would like to formally apologize for the fact that this is not a new chapter but an author's note (how boring)

but i haven't updated this shit in like  _eighty years_ and i'm sure no one's even still interested (i know i'm sure not)

SO i was thinking of rewriting this fic. i was reading back over it, trying to see if there was anything that could be salvaged, and i made some  _crucial_ plot errors (where did the flashdrive in the beginning go,  _relationships don't happen that fast byrd you effing idiot,_ why don't you have a  _layout_ of the damn  _government building_ what is  _going on_ ) and so anyways

i might rewrite it? but only if people want me to

this new version, if it is written, will be significantly faster moving and shorter but i'll probably still keep the main plot elements 

like captures and deaths and all that fun stuff 

so 

anyways

throw me a comment on what you think: trash the fic, rewrite it, other?

bless 

-byrd 


End file.
